“Don’t say that quite yet—not until you’ve heard my request.”
“A favor? You know, Verissimus, I am only too happy—”
The emperor quieted him with a wave of his hand. “Among those I spoke of—charlatans, false prophets, tricksters—are these people who call themselves Christians. They are not only impious, but absurdly proud to be so. Absurdly happy to die, as well. They seem to consider torture and public execution by the state to be a sort of stage performance, with themselves as the leading actors, each striving to outperform the others. What show-offs! ‘Look at me, hanging from a cross, and yet I grin and sing—applaud, applaud!’” Marcus shook his head. “It behooves every man to face death with equanimity, but not with such deluded vulgarity. Impious and vainglorious. They set my teeth on edge.”
“The Christians are not the only people who make a show of death,” said Lucius. “Remember Peregrinus the Cynic, who died so famously when we were boys? At the end of the Olympic Games one year, he announced he would die at the next Olympics, four years later. When the day came, a huge audience gathered and Peregrinus delivered his own funeral oration. ‘One who has lived like Hercules should die like Hercules’—talk about vainglorious! And then, while everyone watched, he climbed onto the pyre and set himself aflame! They say people could hear him screaming in Athens. No one knew if they were witnessing a tragedy or a comedy!”
Marcus responded with a long face. “The only reason that idiot’s death was noted here in Rome was because Peregrinus had lived here for a while and had gathered something of a following, until his attacks on the emperor became so strident that Antoninus Pius had him thrown out of the city. What a farce that was—a campaign of abuse staged by an angry Cynic against the mildest emperor who ever lived! Before he became a Cynic, Peregrinus was a Christian for a while. Did you know that?”
“I had no idea.”
“Yes. Went to Palestine to live among them, until he made himself so unpleasant that even the Christians drove him off. Then came his sordid sojourn here in Rome, followed by his fiery and pointless death in Greece.” Marcus heaved a long sigh. “But Lucius, you’ve distracted me from my reason for calling you here.”
“Pardon me, merciful one. I gather some particular problem regarding these Christians weighs upon you?”
“Yes, a bothersome matter, having to do with a Christian in the city named Justin. He’s not especially troublesome, and you know the precedent that was set by Trajan: unless a complaint is lodged by a reputable member of the community, it’s better to take no action against any given Christian.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lucius, remembering Trajan’s formula. “‘Ask not, tell not.’”
“Exactly. But in fact, a complaint has been lodged against Justin, by—wouldn’t you know it?—a Cynic. A fellow called Crescens claims that Justin steadfastly refuses to recant and worship the gods, and that he aggressively recruits naive young Romans into his cult. Crescens and Justin are neighbors. It seems they obsessively watch each other’s comings and goings, like a pair of old gossips. Crescens further alleges that Justin’s impiety—and that of his fellow Christians—is what stirred the gods to bring about the plague.”
“Does he, indeed?” said Lucius quietly. “But surely this is a matter not for the emperor, but for the city prefect.”
Marcus nodded. “Which post, this year, happens to be occupied by my beloved old teacher, Junius Rusticus. Reviewing the case, Rusticus came across material that he sent along to me, saying he thought I might be interested. There’s nothing surprising about the Cynic, but there’s a bit more to this Justin fellow than you might think. Among the documents Rusticus compiled is an old letter Justin submitted years ago to Antoninus Pius when he was emperor. Also included in the salutation of the letter are the two heirs apparent at that time, Verus and myself. I don’t recall ever seeing this letter, or hearing it read. Indeed, I doubt very much that it ever reached the attention of Antoninus. But the letter has been in the imperial archive year after year, as if patiently waiting for just the right moment to come to my attention. A peculiar chain of events, don’t you think? And you know I don’t believe in ‘mere coincidence.’
“Like most such letters, this one opens with a great deal of fawning and flattery, but then proceeds with astonishing self-confidence. Justin is no—‘ignoramus’ is not quite the word I want. The old Latin word ‘paganus’ is better. Justin is no ‘paganus,’ no peasant or backward country bumpkin. At some point in his life, before he became a Christian, he made a serious study of philosophy. The difficult case he puts forward—rejecting a thousand years of Greek wisdom and extolling Christianity as the only true belief—is sometimes quite clever, and deeply felt, I have no doubt. But what a nerve the fellow has, to set about lecturing the emperor, like a father lecturing a child! Such people have no idea, none whatsoever, of the challenges one faces, every hour of every day…”
Staring up at a painting of Hadrian, Marcus seemed to grow distracted. At last he continued. “Anyway, Justin’s letter vexed me. And it amused me. I feel as if I’ve met the fellow, and though I can’t say I like him, I don’t relish the idea that he should be tortured and executed. It would hardly be proper for me to meet with the man, but, as a personal favor, would you be willing to do so, Lucius?”
“Me, Verissimus?”
“Yes, you, Senator Pinarius. There is no more levelheaded fellow in Rome than you. Read Justin’s letter, and then have a talk with him. Talk also with Crescens, his accuser. The man is a Cynic, so who knows if he can be believed? I don’t want an official report from some clerk. I want the impressions of a man I know and trust. Meet with the two of them. Then return and share your thoughts. Will you do this for me?”
Lucius could hardly refuse.
* * *
The small, crowded cell in which Lucius found the Christian was just as dank and foul as he expected, with only a small, barred opening high in the wall to admit air and light, a few crude benches for the only furniture, piles of straw for beds, and a single large bucket to receive the urine and excrement of the dozen or so prisoners. But the Christian was not the wild-eyed troublemaker he had expected. Justin had unkempt hair and a long beard, and he was rather filthy and foul smelling, to be sure, but who would not be after several days in such a place? His manner was quite sedate—almost too calm, Lucius thought, for a man facing torture and death.
Justin also looked vaguely familiar, but Lucius couldn’t imagine where he might have seen him before. Perhaps if the man were washed and groomed, Lucius might recall.
The guards released Justin from his shackles and allowed him out of the cell so that Lucius could interview him in a setting more suitable for a senator. This room was also dank and malodorous, but at least it had chairs and was reasonably private, with two armed men standing in the doorway, watching.
The explanation for Justin’s calm manner quickly became evident. The man believed absolutely that he was right about everything (meaning others, including the emperors, had to be wrong), and that he would be proved right in the end—not merely at the end of his own life or the end of an age, but at the end of the whole world, which would conclude with fiery, eternal punishment for all who did not think exactly as he did, and the reward of eternal life (presumably a happy one) for himself and his fellow Christians. This end of the world, Justin believed, was likely to occur any day now. Indeed, in his opinion, the plague was very likely the first warning that the final days of mankind were swiftly approaching.
“But let it not come today,” said Lucius. “I am expecting the arrival of a friend from Pergamum.”
He meant this to be a joke, but Justin took him seriously. “I would say the same thing, Senator, but for a different reason. If the end were to come now, today, at this very moment, then my martyrdom would be taken from me. But listen to yourself, Justin!” The man had the peculiar habit of addressing himself by name, as if there were two (or more?) of him present. “What a shameful thing to say! To long
for martyrdom is to commit the sin of pride. Who are you, Justin, that you think yourself worthy to wear a martyr’s crown in paradise?”
“Are you saying that if the end of the world occurred right now, you would be disappointed because you would then not experience the many hours of torture and the shameful death that very likely await you in the days to come?” Lucius hated to speak so bluntly, but the man’s demeanor demanded candor.
“You see through me, Senator. Justin is a vain fellow who somehow fancies himself good enough to join the company of the fearless men and women who suffered and died for their faith, who shall dwell in the company of Our Dominus in the hereafter, ceaselessly singing his praises and basking in the warm glow of his endless love.”
“Is that how you imagine it? It seems to me it’s your dominus, as you call him, who is the vain one, demanding to be ceaselessly praised. Why should this master of the universe care if you praise him or not? Does the praise give him sustenance? In that case, he seems no different than the other gods.”
“There are no other gods.”
“How can you say such a thing? Do you really think that Jupiter and Mars and Minerva do not exist? What of Venus? Surely every man has felt the power of Venus in his youth.”
“I never said those beings do not exist,” said Justin. “But why do you call them gods, and think them worth worshipping? Their behavior is petty, selfish, vile, and repulsive—hardly what one expects from the highest and holiest power in the universe.”
“You mock the gods?”
“What sort of god would turn himself into a swan and ravish a poor, unsuspecting woman, betraying his own wife, and not for the first time but the hundredth? Yet Jupiter did so with Leda, committing not only rape and adultery, but bestiality!”
Lucius winced. “Gods are not constrained by the moral strictures of mortal society.”
“His bestiality did not stop there. Your Jupiter then turned himself into an eagle and flew off with pretty little Ganymede, and after having his way with the poor boy, Jupiter turned him over to the other gods to be their ‘cupbearer’—in other words, their toy, to do with as they pleased. What a lecherous bunch!”
Lucius was speechless. He had always found the story of Jupiter and Ganymede a beautiful tale. Certainly it had inspired much great art.
Justin took advantage of Lucius’s silence to continue his argument. “You say Our Dominus is vain because he demands the love and worship of his children, but what sort of god—a being worthy of worship—would lure a poor mortal into a musical contest, and then, when the mortal inevitably lost, not merely boast of winning, but hang the wretch from a tree and flay him alive? Yet that is what you would have me believe took place with Apollo and Marsyas. Now, that is not only vanity at work, but wickedness and spite. The screams of poor Marsyas were sweet music to Apollo! If these so-called gods of yours actually exist, they are more powerful than mortals, obviously, but in no way divine. They are not gods but evil spirits who delight in human suffering. Yet I do not condemn the Romans for their wrongheaded religion. I would save them from it! Just as an innocent man or woman may become possessed by an evil spirit, so the empire of Rome is possessed by these wicked beings, who not only oppress you but delude you into worshipping them. Rome must be exorcised of these spirits—Jupiter and Hera, Venus and Mars, and all the rest! Cast out the demons, I say!”
Lucius shook his head in dismay. “I think I should end this interview immediately, before you utter even more impiety.” He stood and turned toward the doorway, then stopped and looked back. “Wait a moment. Now I remember where I’ve seen you! You were present at one of Galen’s anatomical demonstrations. Yes, it was that first time I saw Galen prove that a pig’s ability to squeal is dependent on a particular nerve.”
Justin smiled. “I remember attending such a demonstration. I’ve been known to mingle on occasion with the physicians and philosophers outside the Temple of Pax. Arguing with them sharpens my wits.”
“Does it? When my friend Galen makes some startling assertion, he follows it with a demonstration of empirical proof. Can you prove any of the impious things you say?”
Justin sighed. “I wasn’t much impressed by your friend’s crude anatomical demonstrations. I suspect he trained that poor pig to squeal or not to squeal on command. The squealing of a pig is anything but miraculous!”
“Galen never said it was a miracle. Quite the opposite. The whole point—”
“Do you know about the Christian Peter and his wonder-working contest with the wicked magician Simon Magus, here in Rome?”
Lucius was confused by the change of subject. “What? When was this?”
“Long before our lifetimes.”
“I’ve never heard of this Peter and Simon, or of any contest.”
Justin laughed. “What a city this is, where people are blind to miracles in their midst, yet make a fuss over a physician and a squealing pig! Peter did something truly miraculous. Without cutting into them, mind you—without even touching them—he made animals to utter human speech. Those who witnessed were astounded, and Simon Magus was made to look a fool.”
Lucius bit his tongue. What was the use of arguing with such a man, at once so clever and so obtuse? Talking animals! Why did Christians make up such ridiculous stories about themselves and their exploits? Was it any wonder they attracted the hostility of decent citizens? Lucius hurriedly left the squalid room and did not look back.
But as he stepped into the street, leaving the stench of the prison behind, Lucius could not help but feel sorry for Justin. It seemed wrong somehow that such a mild fellow should be subjected to torture and execution, and not for anything to do with what he said, but because he refused to burn a bit of incense to the gods. Touch a flame to the sweet-smelling stuff, and Justin would be released at once. How absurd it seemed, that Justin would not submit to an everyday ritual that would save his life!
Or was the incense test itself absurd, as the determinant of life and death? Galen had once said that true impiety lay not in refusing to burn a bit of incense, but in doubting the perfect order of the universe. Justin would no doubt say he believed in perfection, but Lucius would never understand his point of view.
* * *
Lucius met Crescens at the place of the Cynic’s choosing, which happened to be the baths closest to Crescens’s home. Perhaps it would be a good thing, Lucius thought, to interview the man in easy, informal surroundings, where the Cynic might be more candid than cagey.
Lucius had never been to the small establishment before, and was expecting something far nicer. He had never stepped foot in such a tawdry bathing establishment in his life. There was not a painting to be seen, and the few statues were very poor copies hewn from inferior marble and painted in gaudy, slapdash fashion. Venus would be appalled to see such an image of herself, though Lucius thought it unlikely the goddess had ever passed this way. The place had a strange smell and was dimly lit, which was probably not a bad thing, judging from the filthy state of the tiles and the grout.
Like all the baths in Rome since the plague struck, however grand or humble, this one was largely deserted. An entire wing seemed to be closed, either because there were not enough patrons, or because there were not enough slaves to keep all the furnaces and waterworks in operation. Many people preferred to stay at home unwashed, fearing contagion, either from other people, or perhaps from the water itself.
Fortunately, in the part of the baths that remained open, the plumbing and heating were in good order. Indeed, the hot pool was almost too hot. That was where he found Crescens, who looked surprisingly like the man he was persecuting, having the same unkempt hair and ragged beard as Justin, and the same unwavering, beatific facial expression. No matter where the conversation led, Crescens seemed infinitely pleased with himself and the universe.
Lucius decided to be frank from the start. “I didn’t think Cynics believed in bathing,” he said, settling into the pool with a sharp breath as the steaming water lapped a
t his privates.
Crescens shrugged. “Earth, air, fire, water—I am equally at home in any element, and equally disagreeable in all.”
“Even fire? Like your fellow Cynic, Peregrinus?”
“So! You are not a complete ignoramus after all, despite that toga with a senator’s stripe I saw you wearing on your way in.”
This was the kind of insulting talk typical of Cynics. Lucius was determined to avoid distractions and to stick to the subject. “You’ve lodged a very serious accusation of impiety against your neighbor Justin. Is there some animosity between you?”
“Do I take offense at living in close proximity to such an atheotatous fellow?” This was a bit of Greek meaning “most atheist of atheists.” Lucius had heard other philosophers apply the word to Christians. “I certainly do object! Such gross impiety is likely to draw the wrath of Jupiter himself upon Rome, and where do you imagine the Father of Gods will strike first? A thunderbolt cast upon Justin’s balding head is likely to set my own humble abode aflame, and me and my boys with it.”
The natural riposte, of course, would be to remind Crescens that he had just declared himself at home in fire, or perhaps to ask what boys he meant, but Lucius refused to be drawn into pointless queries or debates. He was about to speak again when the boys referred to suddenly appeared, making three large splashes as they jumped into the pool in quick succession. A pair of older patrons at the far side of the pool sputtered and grumbled, but Crescens greeted the newcomers with a wide grin. He was missing several teeth, and those remaining were various shades of brown and yellow.
“And here they are, my trio of delights! Senator Pinarius, meet Chrestos, Callinicus, and Hilarion. Truly, they are the three cleverest boys in Rome!”
Lucius judged them to be about his own son’s age, though their swaggering, smirking demeanor was hardly childlike.
Crescens patted each of them on the head. “What is it the Christians’ man-god says of his followers? ‘They toil not. Neither do they spin.’ Ah, that’s my boys. Such layabouts. Yet somehow—it’s a most remarkable thing—they always have a few coins between them, as if they can somehow make money from the mere fact of being pretty. I’m sure I don’t know where it comes from, but I do welcome the sesterces they contribute to help Uncle Crescens pay the rent and buy the wine.”
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