Authors: Unknown
Traditionally respectful to their dead, the Jews were greatly distressed
when Rome assigned them a burial ground far south of the city where only a
shallow deposit of soil covered a massive tufa rock fully a hundred feet deep.
Passionate patriots made it a practice to go out there by night and desecrate
the graves.
At a prodigious cost of labour, the afflicted Jews proceeded to carve an
oblique tunnel into the solid stone. On the lower level, they made long,
labyrinthine corridors, in the walls of which they dug crypts for their dead,
and rooms where hard-pressed fugitives might hide.
As time passed, the persecutions eased. Many wealthy Jews, having
contributed generously to the erection of state buildings and monuments, were
admitted to citizenship; and by their influence the burdens laid upon their
less lucky kindred were lightened. The old burial ground fell into disuse. Few
persons visited 'The Catacombs' now except students of antiquities. Marcellus
wondered why Marcipor, who was getting to be an old man, had selected this
place for their meeting. It was a long walk.
He arrived somewhat earlier than the appointed time, but Marcipor was
already there, waiting for him in the cypress grove that extended from the busy
highway a full quarter-mile to the abandoned subterranean tombs.
Marcipor, who had been sitting on the ground, scrambled to his feet and
hurried forward with outstretched hands, his deep-lined face contorted with
emotion. Deeply moved by the old servitor's attitude, Marcellus grasped his
hands hungrily. He was not a Tribune now. Time swung backwards for both of
them. The little boy, who had so often come running to the calm and resourceful
Corinthian when there was a cut finger or a broken toy, now put his arms around
the old man, and held him close.
'We feared you were dead,' said Marcipor, brokenly. 'The family has
mourned for you. Tell me'--he held Marcellus at arm's length and studied his
face--'why did you afflict them so? It was not like you to do that, my son. . .
. Come, let us sit down. I am very weary.'
'Good Marcipor, I was forced to an unhappy choice of afflictions for my
family. If they thought me dead, they would grieve; but they would remember me
with affection. Had I come home, sworn to spend my life in the service of a
cause which demands the complete breathing away from the manner of life
expected of Senator Gallio's son, I should have caused them all a greater
sorrow. As it stands, they are bereaved; but not humiliated.'
'And why have you told
me?'
asked Marcipor. 'This is indeed a
weighty secret to confide to one who would be loyal to his master.'
'I saw my father on the day of the Emperor's funeral, Marcipor. His
handsome face was haggard, his eyes were dulled with despair, his shoulders
slumped, the proud, statesmanlike bearing was gone. The light was out. I tried
to forget that harrowing glimpse of my father, but it tortured me. That is why I
have sought your counsel. Shall I return? Is there anything I can do?'
With bowed head and downcast eyes, Marcipor meditated a reply.
'Of course you will say,' continued Marcellus, 'that I should renounce
the work I have undertaken and resume my former place in my father's house. I
cannot expect you to understand the obligation that is laid on me, for you have
had no opportunity to--'
'No, my son!' broke in Marcipor. 'You could not renounce your new
calling; not even if you tried! I am not as ignorant of this matter as you
think. Once a man has become convinced that Jesus is the living Son of God, who
is here to set up a kingdom of justice and good will for all people, he does
not surrender that faith! If, for any reason, he turns away from it, that means
he never had it!'
Marcellus leaned forward to listen, with widening eyes.
'Marcipor!' he exclaimed. 'You are a Christian?'
'When you were at home, the last time, Demetrius thought I should tell
you of my belief, and my association with the other Christians in Rome--'
'Other Christians?' repeated Marcellus, amazed.
'Yes, my son, and they are in grave danger. I knew that if you were told
of a growing Christian party in Rome, you would join it. These men, for the
most part obscure, can assemble secretly, in small groups, without attracting
much attention. A Tribune could not do that. I thought it more prudent that you
keep away from these meetings. Now, in the past few days, the new Emperor has
published an edict threatening death to anyone found in an assembly of
Christians. What will happen to our cause in Rome remains to be seen. Young
Caligula is cruel and headstrong, they say.'
'Young Caligula is insane!' muttered Marcellus.
'It would seem so,' went on Marcipor, calmly, 'but he is bright enough
to carry out his design for slaughter. I knew, when you wrote me you were here,
that you would presently locate some Christians and associate with them. You
should think twice before you take that risk. We who are unimportant can hide.
You cannot; not for long. The Emperor would welcome the opportunity to make an
example of you!'
'But you would not counsel me to run away!' challenged Marcellus.
'No one who knows you as well as I do, my son, would use those words.
But your life is valuable. While this threat is active, there is little you can
do for frightened people in hiding. If you leave the city, until the Emperor's
diseased mind turns toward some other cruel pastime, you could return--and be
of service. There's no use throwing your life away!'
Marcellus reached out a hand and affectionately patted the old man's
knee.
'Marcipor,' he said, gently, 'you have been speaking as my father's
trusted servant, concerned for the welfare of his son. For that I am grateful.
But this is not the kind of advice that one Christian gives another. Has
Demetrius--or anyone--told you of Jesus' last journey to Jerusalem, when his
disciples, knowing how dangerous it would be for him to appear there during the
Passover, tried to dissuade him from going? They pointed out that his life was
precious; that it mustn't be wasted; that he must be saved for service to the
people.'
'What did he say?' wondered Marcipor.
'He told them it was poor advice; told them that no man should caution
his friend against going into danger for duty's sake; told them that sometimes
a man had to lose his life to save it, and that those who tried to save
themselves would surely lose themselves. No, you mean it well enough, Marcipor;
but I'm remaining in Rome! Can't you realize that our cause might be lost if we
who believe in it are frugal of our blood?'
Marcipor slowly nodded his head, and laboriously rose to his feet.
'Come, then,' he said. 'Let us go--and join them.'
'Where?' asked Marcellus.
'In the tombs,' said Marcipor, pointing through the trees. 'About thirty
men are meeting there to seek counsel about future plans.'
'Are there so many as thirty Christians in Rome?' Marcellus was
surprised and pleased.
'My son,' said Marcipor, 'there are nearly four thousand Christians in
Rome! These men are their appointed leaders.'
Marcellus stood speechless for a long moment, pondering this almost
incredible announcement. At length he found his voice.
'His kingdom is coming, Marcipor! It is gaining strength, faster than I
had thought!'
'Patience, my son!' murmured Marcipor, as he led the way toward the
tombs. 'It has still a long, hard road to travel.'
The narrow, uneven steps down into the tunnel were dark as night. As
they reached the lower level, a feeble glow outlined the entrance to a corridor
on the left. Marcipor proceeded into it with the confidence of one who knew his
way. A tall man, in a labourer's tunic, stepped forward and, holding a dim
lantern above his head, peered into Marcellus's face.
'Who is this, Marcipor?' he demanded.
'Tribune Marcellus Gallio. He is one of us, Laeto.'
'And what have we to do with Tribunes?' asked Laeto, gruffly.
'Marcellus has given up much for his faith, Laeto,' said Marcipor,
gently. 'He knows more about the Galilean than any of us--save one.'
'Very well,' consented Laeto, reluctantly, 'if you vouch for him.'
They proceeded through the long corridor, groping their way, Marcellus
wondering at its vast extent. Marcipor lagged and took his arm.
'Laeto views our new cause as a banding together of the poor,' he
confided, softly. 'You will find a good deal of that sentiment among the
Christians. They can't be blamed much, for they have been long oppressed. But
it would be unfortunate if Jesus' kingdom turned out to be a poor man's
exclusive haven.'
'Perhaps it would have been better if my identity had remained a
secret,' said Marcellus.
'No, it will be good for the Christians in Rome to know that a man with
a few coins in his purse can be a worthy follower. We have been hearing too
much about the virtues of poverty.'
They turned an abrupt corner to the right and faced another narrower
passage that continued on and on, the walls studded with stone slabs bearing
names and dates of Jews long dead. A small light flickered, revealing a heavy
wooden door at the end of the corridor. Another sentinel moved out of the
shadows and confronted them. Marcipor again explained Marcellus. The sentinel
pointed with his torch to a small drawing on the lintel.
'Do you know what that sign means?' he inquired.
'It is the Christian's secret symbol, sir,' replied Marcellus.
'Did someone tell you that, or have you seen it before?'
'I have seen it in many places--in Galilee, and Jerusalem.'
'Let me ask you then,' said the sentinel, 'why is the symbol a fish? Is
there anything sacred about a fish?'
Marcellus explained respectfully. The sentinel listened with keen
attention.
'You may enter,' he said, stepping aside.
It was a large rectangular room with accommodation for many more people
than sat in the semi-circular rows in the far corner, huddled closely about a
huge, bearded man who was talking to them in a deep guttural tone.
They moved quietly forward, in the dim light, Marcipor leading, until
the speaker's earnest voice became plainly audible. Marcellus recognized it,
and plucked at the good old Corinthian's sleeve.
'Know him?' whispered Marcipor, with a pleased smile.
'Of course!' said Marcellus, excitedly.
It was The Big Fisherman!
It was early morning but already promising to be another hot day. The
swarthy overseer of the vineyard, temporarily at ease, lounged against the
gatepost and yawningly watched the labourers--four score or more of men, women,
and grown-up children--as they cut the huge purple clusters; carefully, for
this fruit was going to a select market.
Some distance down the highway a little wisp of dust was rising from the
lazy feet of a shaggy grey donkey attached to a decrepit high-wheeled cart
filled with hay. A slim youth walked ahead, impatiently tugging at a long
lead-strap. At intervals the donkey stopped and the tall boy in the knitted cap
would brace his feet and pull with all his weight, his manner suggesting
complete exasperation.
Vobiscus, the overseer, watched and grinned. The young fellow didn't
know much about donkeys or he would walk alongside with a stout thornbush in
hand. Who was he? Vobiscus was acquainted with all the donkeys, carts, and
farmer-boys likely to be plodding along the road in the vicinity of Arpino, but
this forlorn equipage lacked identification. He studied it with increasing
interest as it crept forward. Nobody would be hauling hay to market in such a
cart, and this youngster hadn't come from a hayfield. He wore a long, coarse
tunic and the sort of leggings that quarrymen used for protection against
flying chips of stone. The bulging old cap might have belonged to a boatman. It
was much too heavy for this weather. Vobiscus wondered why he didn't take it
off.
Directly in front of the open gate, the donkey took root again, and the
slim youth--without a glance at Vobiscus, who was sauntering out into the
road--jerked so furiously at the lead-strap that the old bridle broke. Finding
himself at liberty, the donkey ambled off to the roadside and began nibbling at
the grass, while the angry boy trailed along, pausing to pick up the dragging
bridle, which he examined with distaste. Then he threw it down and scrubbed his
dusty hands up and down on the skirt of his ill-fitting tunic. They were
delicate hands, with long, tapering fingers. He glanced about now, gave the
overseer a brief and not very cordial inspection, and walked with short,
clipped steps to the donkey's head.
Vobiscus, thoughtfully stroking his jaw, made a thorough, item by item,
head to foot appraisal of the unhappy young stranger. Then his cheek began to
bulge with a surmising tongue and an informed smile wrinkled his face. He
picked up the brittle old harness and unbuckled the broken straps.
'I thought you were a boy,' he said, kindly. 'I'll fix the bridle for
you, daughter. Go over there and sit down in the shade--and help yourself to
some grapes from that basket. You look worn out.'
The tall girl gave him a long, cool stare. Then her lips parted in a
smile that made Vobiscus's heart skip a beat. She rubbed her forehead wearily,
and tugged off the outlandish old woollen cap, releasing a cascade of blue-black
hair that came tumbling down over her shoulders. Vobiscus laughed discreetly,
appreciatively. The girl laughed too, a tired little whimpering laugh that was
almost crying.
'You are kind,' she murmured. 'I will do that. I am so hot and thirsty.'
The intolerable donkey had now jammed a wheel against the stone fence
and was straining to free himself. Vobiscus went around to the tail of the cart
for an armful of hay to entertain him until the bridle was put in order.