To the Lions by Alfred J. Church

When the prisoners had answered to their names, and had stated their several occupations and condition of life, the inquiry began. A long harangue by the prosecutor on the subject of the importance of the worship of the gods was cut short by the Governor, who intimated that his eloquence, if it should be wanted at all, would be more relevant after his evidence had been produced. Thus checked, the advocate began his examination, addressing it in the first instance to Anicetus.

“You are one of the leaders of the society which calls itself by the name of Christus?’

“Is this the matter, or among the matters, of which you accuse me?”

“Certainly it is.”

“Then you hold it to be a crime to belong to this society of Christus?”

“Certainly, seeing that it is not one of the societies that are permitted to exist by the constitution of the Roman Sate and the will of our sovereign lord, Trajan Augustus.”

“If that be so, I appeal to the Governor whether by the law of Rome I can be compelled to make such answer as would criminate myself.”

[90] The appeal was so manifestly just that the Governor did not think it necessary to consult his assessor, but decided that the question need not be answered.

Baffled at this point, the prosecutor re-commenced his attack at another.

“You do not deny that you and your associates were assembled this morning in the guildhouse of the wool-combers?”

“We do not deny it.”

“For what purpose, then, did you meet?”

“Before I answer that question, I would myself wish to know whether you have the right to ask it. Are free men and women, against whom there is no evidence of wrongdoing, to be questioned by any one as to the purpose of their meeting? That we have the right to use the guildhouse of the wool-combers is proved by this document.”

So saying, Anicetus produced from his pocket a small parchment, which simply recited that the wool-combers, in consideration of a sum of four hundred drachm? yearly, permitted the use of their guildhouse to Anicetus.

“You see, then,” resumed Anicetus, “that we have not taken possession of a place to which we are not entitled, nor is there any evidence against us of unlawful dealings. Were we found with weapons in our hands, or preparing noxious drugs, [91] or practising forbidden acts, or plotting against the safety of the State and the life of the Emperor, then might you justly ask us for our defence. But you do not attempt to prove against us any unlawful deed or words.”

The prosecutor then tried a third method of attack. “Are you and your associates willing to worship the gods of the Roman State, and to pay the customary homage to the image of our lord, Trajan Augustus?”

Without answering this question Anicetus turned to the governor: “Is it permitted to us, most excellent Plinius, that we see the accusation under which we have been this day brought before you?”

“There are many accusations,” replied the Governor; “they are substantially the same, and it will probably suffice for the purpose that one should be read.—Scribe,” he went on, turning to an official that sat near, “read the information of Lucilius against the people called Christians.”

The document was read. It charged a number of persons, including all of the prisoners then before the court, and many who were not in custody. Treason, impiety towards the gods and towards the Emperor, hatred of mankind, licentiousness, were among the accusations brought against them.

“Here,” said Anicetus, when the reading was finished, “are many terrible things brought against [92] us, whereof no proof has been given by our accuser. Is it lawful, most excellent Plinius, that, such proof failing him, he should seek thus to raise prejudice against us? What right has this advocate, being but a private person, to call upon his fellow-citizens to do sacrifice to the gods or to the Emperor? What right has he to fix the time, the place, the manner of worship? Were an Egyptian, a worshipper of Isis, standing here, could he be lawfully compelled to do sacrifice to Jupiter? Or should a German—a worshipper, as I have heard, of Hertha—be condemned because he does not pay reverence to Apollo? For tell me now,” he went on, addressing the accuser, “you that charge us with impiety, are you diligent in the performance of your own duties in divine things?”

The accuser was notoriously a man who believed in nothing, and was known not to spend a drachma on any religious duty. A hum of approval ran round the court at this manifest hit. So far, the line of defence taken by Anicetus had been successful. It might easily have failed with another Governor, a man of more imperious and tyrannical temper than Pliny; but the Elder had skillfully taken into account the Governor’s mild and tolerant character, and his probable desire to avoid any measure of severity. But it was now to be overthrown in an unexpected way. A tablet was passed [93] from among the crowd of spectators and put into the hands of the prosecuting counsel. On it were written the words, “Challenge the free condition of Rhoda, commonly called the daughter of Bion and Rhoda his wife, and call as your witness the freedman Eudoxus.” This document bore the name of Lucilius, and the prosecutor at once perceived its importance. Indeed, it was his last hope, if his case was not to break down completely. He resumed his address.

“As your regard for freedom, most excellent Plinius, protects the silence of Anicetus and his companions, I will address myself to the case of one of the accused who cannot claim this same protection. I maintain that the woman Rhoda—the reputed daughter of Bion and Rhoda—is not of free condition, but is a slave.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the court, judge, assessor, accused, and audience could not have been more astonished. The first feeling was one of absolute incredulity. To no one did the statement seem more absurd than to the girl herself.

“This is a strange contention,” remarked the Governor, “and not lightly to be made against a family of good repute. What evidence can you produce?”

“I call the freedman Eudoxus,” replied the prosecutor.

[94] The freedman Eudoxus was present, it soon appeared, in court, for he answered when his name was called. Most of those present knew him, but none, it may safely be said, knew any good of him. He did a little pettifogging business as an informer—a person who performs functions that may sometimes be useful, but are certainly always odious. If a baker gave short weight, if a wine-seller hammered the sides or thickened the bottoms of his measures, Eudoxus was commonly the man to bring his misdeeds home to him, getting for his reward half the penalty. Had he been content with this, he might have been endured; but he was not content—his gains had to be increased. If he did not find offences he manufactured them. All the little traders and shopkeepers of the place—for he did not fly at high game—were in terror of him, and most of them submitted to the blackmail which he levied of them. As he spent his ill-gotten gains in the most discreditable way, it may be guessed that Eudoxus had about as bad a reputation as any one in Nic?a. Great was the wonder among the audience what this miserable creature could know about the family of the respectable Bion. A few of the older people, however, had the impression that he had once been in the farmer’s employment.

Eudoxus, a man of dwarfish stature, with a large [95] misshapen head, whose countenance bore manifest tokens of a life of excess, stood up in the witness-box. The usual oath was administered to him.

“Tell us,” said the Governor, “what you know about this case.”

“Twenty years ago I was in the service of Bion. He is my patron. He enfranchised me. I was his bailiff.”

“Why did you leave him?” asked the Governor.

“We had a difference about my accounts.”

“I understand,” said Pliny, who, like the rest of the world, was not impressed with the appearance of the witness; “you made things better for yourself and worse for him than he thought right. But go on; what do you know about this matter? You understand what it is; practically this, that the accused Rhoda is not truly the daughter of Bion. Do you know this said Rhoda?”

“Perfectly well, and her sister Cleone also.”

“Proceed then.”

“Bion bought me about a month after he came to the farm which he now cultivates. I was there when he brought thither his newly married wife, Rhoda by name. I lived in the house for five years following that time. They had no children. Of this I am sure, for I saw the said Rhoda day after day, without the intermission of more than a day at the most, during the said five years. It [96] was a matter of common talk among us of the household that this want of children was a great grief to the master and his wife. There years after his coming, one morning—it was, I remember, the first day of May—Bion called us all into the dining-chamber. There was a cradle with two children in it. I should judge that they were a few days old. He said, ‘See the daughters whom God has given me.’ The same day he enfranchised me. To the other slaves he gave presents, and promised them their liberty in due time, according to their age, if they should show themselves worthy of it.”