“He called them his daughters, then?” asked the Governor.
“Truly; but no pretence was made that they were so in truth, for his wife did not keep her chamber.”
“Who were the women that waited upon her? Are they yet alive?”
“The elder, who was called the mistress’s nurse, died, I believe, some ten years since. The younger is married to Lucas the butcher, that has his stall in the north-east corner of the market-place.”
The Governor gave directions that the wife of Lucas the butcher should be sent for. Meanwhile he adjourned the proceedings for half an hour.
[97] On the reassembling of the court the witness was ready to be examined. Happily for herself, as will be seen, she had been emancipated before her marriage. She gave her testimony with evident reluctance, but it was clear and conclusive.
“I was waiting-maid of Rhoda, wife of Bion. Bion bought me of a dealer in Ephesus a few days before his marriage, that I might wait on his wife. I went to her at once, and never left her till I was married, now ten years ago. She never had a child born to her. It is impossible that she should have done so without my knowing. It was commonly said that this was a great grief to her. I have seen her weeping, and knew that this was the cause. One day, when I had been with her about three years, the old woman whom we used commonly to call her nurse said to me: ‘Come now, Myrto’that was my name‘see the mistress’s lovely babies.’‘What?’ I said; ‘it is impossible.’‘Nay, say nothing,’ she said, and put her hand on my mouth. Then she took me into a chamber next to the mistress’s, and sure enough, there were two lovely little girl-babies, twins, as one could see at once, not more than a few days old, as I judged. Nurse said, ‘You are a wise girl, and can keep a quiet tongue in your head. From to-day these two are Rhoda and Cleone, daughters of Bion and Rhoda. And now, [98] mind, not a word to any one; and, above all, not a word to the little ones themselves when they grow up. For love’s sake, I know, you will keep silence, nor will you miss your reward.’”
“And did you know whose the children really were?” asked the Governor.
“I did not know.”
“Could they have belonged to any one in the household?”
“Certainly not. Of this I am sure.”
“Some one, I suppose, knew?”
“Yes, nurse knew, but she never told. She has been dead some years. The matter was never mentioned. We were the only women in the house. Eudoxus was the only man. The other slaves were outdoor laborers. None of them, as far as I know, are in this neighbourhood now. The girls, when they grew up, always supposed that they were the daughters of the house. It was never doubted; nothing was ever said to make a doubt.”
The witness, whose self-control utterly broke down as soon as she had finished her evidence, now left the box. After a brief consultation with his assessor and with Tacitus, the Governor directed that Bion and Rhoda his wife should be called.
The two were of course present. One of the [99] slaves who had left the assembly, at the bidding of Anicetus, had made them acquainted with Rhoda’s proceedings. As the girl herself failed to return at the usual time, their fears were aroused, and they were turned into certainty by the news that reached them from the town that a large company of Christians had been arrested at their meeting-house. On hearing these tidings they had hurried down to the town, accompanied by Cleone, whom nothing indeed could at such a time have kept away from her sister.
The two answered to their names.
“Let Rhoda, the reputed mother of the person whose condition is questioned, be first called,” said the Governor.
A way was made for her through the throng with no little difficulty, and she made her way with tottering steps and face pale as death, into the witness-box.
“You have heard,” said the Governor, “the testimony of Eudoxus, and Myrto the wife of Lucas?”
“I have heard,” she answered.
“Nevertheless, for the more assurance, let the depositions be read over.”
A scribe accordingly read the depositions.
‘What have you to say to this evidence?”
The unhappy woman did not hesitate a moment. [100] Nothing could have induced her to go aside by one hair’s-breadth from the truth. She lifted her eyes, looked the Governor in the face and answered in a low firm voice: “It is true. The children are not mine.”
“And do you know whose children they are?”
“I know not.”
“Nor whence they came?”
“Not even that. My nurse, as I called her, said that I had best not know. I think that they had been deserted; but even of this I am not sure. I can only guess it, because I never heard so much as a word about the parents. Nurse would never speak on the subject. Even when she was dyingfor I was with her, and asked her again, as I thought it right to doshe would tell me nothing. ‘They are your children by the will of God,’ she said; ‘no one else has part or lot in them.’ “
A whispered consultation now took place between the Governor and his assessor. As the result of it, Bion was called.
“You have heard,” said the Governor, “the testimony of your wife. What say you to it?”
It would have been useless to deny it, even if Bion, who was as truthful as his wife, could have wished to do so. “It is true,” he said.
“Do you know whence the children came?”
[101] “I know nothing more than my wife. The nurse knew, but she would say no more to me than she would to her.”
“Then you cannot say whether they are bond or free by birth?”
The force of the question did not strike the witness, overpowered as he was by the situation, though there were many in the court who saw its significance, while an evil smile crept over the face of the prosecutor.
“Free, my lord!” he answered, after a pause; “of course they are freethey are my adopted children.”
The Governor saw the course that things were taking, and was glad to leave the matter to the prosecutor, being ready to interfere if he saw a chance of helping the imperilled women.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the prosecutor; “you speak of them as being your adopted children, but can you produce the instrument of adoption?”
The poor man was staggered by the question. “I never adopted them in that way. I never thought it necessary. But I have treated them as my children; they have lived with us as children. I have divided everything that I have between them in my will.”
“Pardon me,” said the prosecutor, with his [102] voice most studiously gentle, and his smile more falsely sweet, as he saw his toils closing round his prey, “I do not doubt your kindness to them; but if you cannot produce the usual legal instrumentwhich, indeed, I understand you to say you have never executedthey are not your adopted children. And if you have not adopted them, may I ask whether you have emancipated them?”
The purport of the examination now made itself clear to the unhappy man. He had, of course, done nothing of the kind. Taking it for granted that their condition would never be questionedignorant, too, of law, as a man of his training and occupation would almost certainly behe had never dreamt of either adopting or emancipating the two girls. He had simply treated them as his daughters, and never doubted for a moment that all the world would do so likewise.
“I have established then, most excellent sir,” said the prosecutor, “that the woman Rhoda and her sister Cleone, with whom, indeed, I am not at present concerned, are of the condition of slaves. I demand, therefore, that the woman Rhoda be questioned in the customary way.”
The Governor interposed, “Doubtless the accused will answer such questions as will be put to her.”
[103] “Pardon me, sir, if I say that the law knows but one way only of questioning a slave.”
“But if the slave be willing to speak?”
“Even then, I submit, the law presumes that he will speak the truth only under this compulsion. I demand, therefore, that the woman Rhoda be questioned by torture.”
A movement of horror went through the whole assembly.
Another consultation followed between the Governor and his assessor. “This seems to me a needless severity,” said Pliny, when it was finished. “Why not reserve this compulsion if the witness should be obstinate?”
The prosecuting counsel, hardened as he was, was staggered by this appeal. He turned to Lucilius for further instructions. Lucilius was pitiless. He had been enraged by the cool and skilful defence of Anicetus, and he was determined not to lose his grasp on the victim that had fallen into his power. “Keep to your point,” he whispered to the accuser.