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From A Roman Reporter, by Arthur Aikin Brodribb, London: The Society for The Promotion of Christian Knowledge, New York: E. & J. B. Young & Co.; [c. 1893], pp. 75-87.

A ROMAN REPORTER

by A. A. Brodribb

CHAPTER  V.

T last the day of the trial arrived, the day which was to end in one way or another the anxiety of Marcellinus’s friends, and to determine his own fate. At the farm Priscilla awaited the event with admirable fortitude, but broke down whenever Ursula was more than usually sympathetic; at Ravenna Cassianus was daily becoming more and more anxious, and, to tell the truth, more and more irritable; and Marcellinus alone seemed to preserve his composure. He had fully made up his mind, and had declared his intention to have no legal advice, a decision from which no arguments or entreaties could move him. “They shall hear,” he said, “what a plain Christian man can say in 76 his own defence;” and Cassianus, when he heard his friend’s declaration, had the very worst fears. Cassianus had his own preparations to make, for it would be his duty to report the trial, and reporting, which is no very easy work in these days, was far more laborious in the fourth century.

It is strange that Rome, which, according to the legend, owed its salvation to its geese, never increased the obligation by making its pens of the goose-quill. Reed pens are neither durable nor convenient; and even in the days of Cassianus the ancient stilus and wax tablets were in use among reporters, and were found effectual for the purpose of shorthand writing. Much has been written respecting the early history of shorthand, but, without entering into a learned dissertation on the subject, it will be enough to say that the Latin language lends itself readily enough to this method of writing, so that a Roman reporter was able to attain considerable speed, even with inferior mechanical appliances. In these days, the most expert stenographer would hardly care to enter the gallery of the House of Commons with no better equipment 77 than a steel stilus and half a dozen wax tablets. If he made such an experiment, he would soon tire of digging hieroglyphics in the film of hard wax, and would sigh for his gold pen, or his ever-pointed lead pencil.

When Cassianus entered the court on the fateful morning, he arranged at least twenty little wax tablets by his elbow, ready for use successively. His deputy did the same, and Gaudentius, to whom some of the less important parts of the report were to be entrusted, brought more note-books, and took his place by the side of the other two men. Thus the work was to be shared, and the shorthand notes were afterwards to be dictated to ordinary clerks.

The court was crowded when Numerius arrived with his attendants and took his seat. There was much curiosity to see the new Judge, for women said he was handsome, and men, that he had all the insolent nonchalance of a Roman noble. Certainly, his finely-cut features and tranquil demeanour bore out both these impressions, and it was the general opinion among the crowd that no more distinguished looking 78 man had ever presided in that court. And then was led in one who excited more interest than the Judge himself, the prisoner Marcellinus, who stood between his guards as composedly as if he had been on parade, and as dignified as the Judge who was to determine the issue of life or death. His confinement in prison had rendered his face somewhat pale, but had, at the same time, emphasized the scars which he had received in battle; and as he stood there he looked every inch a brave and determined soldier. All knew the gravity of the charge, but none desired that it should be punished capitally. The common people, half of them Christian, came there to cheer him on his acquittal; the soldiers, his comrades and subordinates, all hoped that the bravest centurion in the legion would be restored to them.

Unhappily, the case seemed only too clear, and the charge only too easily proved. One eye-witness after another came forward to tell the same story and to describe the outrageous act that they had all seen. No questions were asked of any of them by the prisoner, who 79 disdained to point out small discrepancies in their testimony. But when Patroclus, the young lieutenant who had been prevented from sacrificing, had finished his evidence, Marcellinus, opening his lips for the first time, said to him kindly —

“Are you a Christian now?”

‘Yes,” said the young man, “I thank God that I have repented. One soul at least you have saved.”

“Keep your heroics to yourself,” said the Judge, coldly; “I am not concerned with your religion.” Then he turned to Marcellinus, and, with the same frigid dignity, said: “You have heard the witnesses; what have you to say?”

There was a momentary pause, during which all eyes were riveted upon the prisoner. Cassianus’s deputy ceased writing, and Cassianus himself, knowing that the crisis had come, took up the stilus. The pause lasted for barely half a minute, but in that short space of time the old reporter called to mind some of the great forensic efforts that he had heard and reported, and longed for an advocate who would freely ridicule 80 and malign the hostile witnesses, raise a hundred subtle points of law, make light of the offence, and paint eloquently the prisoner’s military exploits. Nothing of all this would Marcellinus do for himself. He stood there undefended, and there was no chance of an acquittal. Cassianus could only hope that the Judge would be merciful. Instantly his stilus was flying over the wax as Marcellinus began his short defence: —

“I have no eloquence, and I know how to defend myself better with my sword than with my tongue, but some few words it is fitting that I should speak before I am condemned. I have employed no advocate, because I have only a short, plain story to tell, and because I blame none of the witnesses, and knew beforehand that their evidence would be true. Least of all do I blame Patroclus, who, I know, would not willingly have brought me to an evil death. An evil death? Nay, I should not have said that. A disgraceful death it may be in the sight of men, but surely not an evil one, if I die in my duty. You, noble Numerius, and these others, may ask how it came about that a disciplined 81 soldier, and one, too, accustomed to give as well as take orders, so far forgot himself as to interrupt a sacrifice, and cause a disturbance among the people; for doubtless I did all this, and more. You shall hear the reason. Fifteen years ago the rebel and usurper Carausius was in possession of Gessoriacum,* a town on the Gallic coast, which was being besieged both by land and sea by Constantius. I was but a young soldier at the time, and had never before fought on board ship, or what I am relating would not have happened. I seem to see her now, our long, swift ship, with her deck crowded with soldiers, and the bellying white sail overhead. We had just beaten back two rebel ships that had endeavoured to escape, and were returning to our anchorage, when a heavy puff of wind made the vessel heel over suddenly, and threw me off my feet headlong into the sea. I was no swimmer, and even a good swimmer could hardly have sustained himself under the weight of his full armour, but my good comrade Patroclus, not thinking of this, instantly plunged 82 in to my rescue. The ship was put about in order to pick us up, and when I recovered my senses, and found myself safe on board again, the sailor who had pulled me out with a boot-hook told me that my brave preserver had lost his life in saving me, and had gone to the bottom. That man was the father of my lieutenant Patroclus, whose evidence you have just head. Giving, as he did, his own life for mine, he went beyond the reach of man’s gratitude; but when his son was recruited for our legion some few years afterwards, it was natural that I should be his friend. You may think that I have befriended him strangely. Not so. By the grace of God I have been the means of leading him to our Divine Master, and I would again to-morrow freely risk all that I hold dear were he again to imperil his soul by sacrificing to an idol at a public merry-making. But by the help of our Master he will do that no more. You have all heard him avow that he is a Christian, and so far my end is gained. He, the son of my old comrade who was drowned for my sake, shall save his soul alive.”

There were many Christians in court, both soldiers and civilians, and applause was heard as this simple story was told, without any oratorical or dramatic art, but in the plainest and sincerest manner. Numerius was wholly unmoved; nothing ever moved him; but he looked at Marcellinus with the air of a critic who has to decide how far a tale is true or false. he had seen Christian enthusiasm before, and was wondering, not for the first time, at the strength and the apparent reality of the prisoner’s religious ardour.

Marcellinus continued: “I have little more to say. In what I did at the sacrifice I acted hastily, and on the impulse of the moment, but not, I think, wrongly; and, as I have said, I would do it again. Allowance, perhaps, may be made for feelings and affections that cannot be controlled. This, however, is not the gravest part of the charge against me. It is said, and I cannot deny it, that I, a centurion, and a soldier now for more than nineteen years, renounced military service, and cast away my arms and my vine stick, the symbol of my authority. It is for that that I 84 am here to-day, being tried for my life. Take it, then; take my life if the severity of the law demands it; and if I may serve God no more on earth, let me praise him in heaven. But if my life may be saved — and there is one for whom I would gladly live — I would appeal to the mercy of the Judge, that a soldier, now very near the legal end of his service, may not die a coward’s death. And yet, what matter is it when we die, for not one of us shall die before his appointed time, it may be to-day, or it may be twenty years hence? But while we stay here, life is sweet, and hope is sweet, and love sweeter than all. I plead not for myself, but for another.”

As the prisoner finished speaking, a sympathetic murmur of applause was heard among the audience, and the general opinion was that the speech had not, on the whole, been injudicious. The offence was undeniable, but some of the circumstances of the case seemed to palliate it; while if the Judge chose to be merciful, the object of his clemency would at least be worthy of it. What would the Judge say? He was 85 just about to speak, and instantly a profound silence fell upon the crowd.

“Prisoner,” said Numerius, in the most tranquil and unconcerned manner, “the court has heard the evidence, the absolutely conclusive evidence, against you; and you have spoken in your defence. The charge against you amounts to mutiny and desertion, for which the penalty is death. You engaged to serve for twenty years; you have now served, I will not say without credit, for more than nineteen. Suddenly, impelled perhaps by passion and superstition, you publicly threw down your arms and repudiated your military oath. That is mutiny, and, as I said, the penalty is death. You have told us that you were excited because this young man, your friend’s son, was departing from your Christian belief. Your motive does you no discredit, but I cannot take it into account. You are, or were, a soldier, and it is as a soldier that I must deal with you, your guilt being both proved and admitted.”

And then, still with the same high-bred dignity, and in the same musical voice, Numerius passed 86 sentence, consigning the prisoner to the guards and the executioner, whose axe would, at the end of the second day, do its appointed work. There was an immense sensation among the crowd, for no one imagined from the Judge’s cool and courteous language and bearing that the extreme penalty would be exacted. The few women who were present fairly wept, and the men, or as many of them as knew the prisoner, heartily called out their farewells to him as he was being led away. Cassianus, who had taken an accurate note of the prisoner’s speech and of Numerius’s judgment, was purple with rage and indignation, and could not restrain himself. As the Judge was leaving the bench the old man gathered together a dozen or so of his tablets, and hurled hem in the direction of the judgment seat. One of the little missiles struck Numerius on the elbow; the others fell with a rattle against the wall, and on the wooden floor of the dais. So gross an outrage could not be overlooked or ignored. The Judge turned, and, resuming his seat, found himself face to face with the culprit.

“What is the meaning of this insult?” he inquired, as suavely as ever.

Cassianus was in too great a fury to answer questions. His face, always red, was flushed and fiery; his eyes glared horribly; his lips tried to move, but could not. He scarcely knew what he had done, or where he was.

“You appear to have forgotten yourself,” said Numerius, amused at this spectacle of impotent excitement.

“Infamous! infamous! infamous!” shouted Cassianus, finding but one word, and repeating it energetically. There was a painful pause, and no one attempted to leave the court as the little wizened old man stood there almost choking with rage, unable to say a syllable more, the very picture of passion and uncontrollable anger.

“Take him away,” said the Judge, contemptuously, to his officers, “and bring him to me to-morrow, when he comes to his senses.”

Footnotes

 *  Boulogne.

Next:

CHAPTER  VI.

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