The Torque

The little basilica was crammed. Perpetua sat to the left of the altar, robed in white. Through a thin veil her commanding nose and fastidious mouth could be clearly seen. She never moved, her eyes fixed ecstatically upon the godhead. Below her, on plainer chairs, sat her father and mother, Justus and Lucilla, landowners of substance, her young brother Marcian, and her little sisters, Galla and Justa. To the right of the altar, overbalancing the domestic group, towered the ecclesiastics: the Bishop of the district, the lesser clergy, the father confessors, and several solitaries who had been attracted by the strangeness and special sanctity of the event. The body of the church was filled with neighbours, the faithful and the curious. It was richly decorated in a rustic fashion, and above the altar, like a trophy, hung a barbaric torque of gold. Through the open western door Justus’s farmyard could be seen. It too was full of people—slaves, husbandmen, soldiers. These last were all baptized Christians and particularly devout. They had been drafted in to protect the sacred ceremony from interference. The district was not as settled as it had been. Deceitfully now did it sleep in the autumn sunlight—

the vineyards, the cornlands, the olive yards, the low ridges of the hills. The soldiers glanced occasionally at the hills.

Mass had been said. Lucilla, a little drowsy, awoke with a start. The great ceremony of her daughter’s dedication was to begin. Perpetua Virgo, perpetual virginity. She nudged her husband and he awoke frowning. For he had promised the Bishop to build a bigger, better basilica as a thank-offering, also Perpetua’s dowry had to be surrendered to the Heavenly Bridegroom, and Marcian’s heritage impaired, and the little girls go almost unportioned. He had not expected all this. He had hoped to marry his eldest

daughter to some substantial farmer. There had been little talk of dedicated virgins when he was young, and he had never expected to rear one in the family. The animals mated—he could hear them at it when the chanting ceased—and are we not like them in that? Still frowning, he took his wife’s hand ritually, then dropped it, for the Bishop had begun his address.

Standing beside the altar, the Bishop reminded his congregation that this dedication would in any case have taken place and been blessed, but it was now signalized by a miracle which would live in the annals of the Church for ever. Five days ago, as they all knew, the virgin Perpetua had set forth on a journey, not from idleness, not from wantonness, not from a desire to see the world (which she already too well knew), but to confer with a holy matron of her acquaintance upon religious matters. She travelled in all seemliness, with her brother as escort and a suitable retinue of slaves.

Edifying was the meeting between the two devout females, long did they converse, many were the pious propositions they exchanged. Presently came the hour for her return to her parents’ abode. She mounted her mule, her brother rode somewhat behind as was suitable, her retinue followed on foot. The evening was calm, the air balmy, no danger seemed to menace.

But these are the moments when the Adversary is most active. She turns a corner of the road and—

“Oh my brethren oh my sisters, what did our virgin then see? Horsemen.

What horsemen? Goths. She shrieks, she trembles, they bear down on her, Goths, Goths, hideous of form and of face, they are here. They lay hold of Perpetua and hale her off her mule, they clasp her, my brethren my sisters, she is lost. Is she not lost? It seems so. Her brother is overpowered, for he is but a stripling, her retinue scattered. With their booty the Goths, yes the Goths I again say, ride onward into the hills. They have captured that which is more precious than gold or jewels, namely a virgin, Perpetua the virgin whom the whole world could not ransom.

“What are they going to do to her, oh my brethren oh my sisters, what?

“Night falls, they come to a miserable hut. Wine is offered to Perpetua which she spurns and they drink and there is an orgy. She is thrown to the ground. And one of them—he who once wore this golden circlet above our altar and now wears it no longer—nay nay I cannot continue—”

He paused, and there was silence in the basilica except for sore swallowings in throats. Using the frank language of his age, the language of St Augustine and St Jerome, he continued as follows:

“—and loosens his own. To lose her virginity to the husband for whom she was once destined would be for Perpetua defilement enough, but this!

The ravisher covers her, his hot breath beats back her prayers, and his member—and they are membered like horses…”

He paused again and somebody laughed. He started with anger and amazement, and the congregation trembled. Who had laughed? They looked right and left, and lo! the face of Marcian the virgin’s young brother was crimson.

For a few moments the service of dedication stopped. Marcian gulped and gasped, and his features returned towards their former colour. His parents bent over him, his mother asked him whether he was ill. He shook his head. He was a modest boy, in awe of his sister as they all were, and his conduct was inexplicable. He now sat with his head bowed and his thick lips closed—there was a strain of African blood in the family and it had come out in Marcian.

The Bishop looked at him and hesitated. He suspected diabolical possession, and the lower clergy were crossing themselves right and left.

Perpetua alone was undisturbed. Her eyes remained fixed on the altar ecstatically. She was far away from such trifles. And taking his cue from her he decided to resume his homily as if nothing had happened.

Let them note (he said) that at that supreme moment when all seemed lost the virgin’s prayer was heard. There was a lightning flash, the Goth staggered back and fell as though struck to the ground. Nay more, he was

visited with repentance and followed her humbly when she departed, and offered her as atonement that great golden torque that lay against the altar now. She returned home unscathed and triumphant, virgo victrix. She had done what the might of men cannot. And in due time, he doubted not, she would subdue all around her to her holy purpose, and the foul engendering which is Adam’s curse would cease.

He looked at Justus and Lucilla as he spoke these last words, and they looked away. It was in sin that they had engendered Perpetua, and in sin—

greater sin—Marcian. Much pleasure had gone to the making of Marcian.

This, they now learned, is wrong. All fruitfulness and warmth are wrong.

They tried to understand this and looked humbly at their formidable daughter, who alone could save them from eternal punishment. When the dedication was over they asked Marcian what had made him laugh. “I do not know, something I was not thinking of made me laugh,” was his reply.

“It may harm us, that laugh of yours.”

“I am sorry, dear father, I will try to laugh no more. But the cattle need driving in. The country is unsafe with Goths about. May I now go and help the herdsmen?”

“No, for there now has to be Holy Converse in the barn,” said Lucilla with a sigh. “All must repair there.”

They did so. The barn resembled the basilica, except that Perpetua now spoke. She exhorted all present to follow her example, the females particularly, and fixed her beady eyes upon her sisters, Galla and Justa, merry little maidens. Males, she explained, were of coarser clay, hewers of wood and drawers of water, and could achieve less. The Bishop took her up a little here. Males, he asserted, could also achieve virginity and must be encouraged to do so. The involuntary pollutions which sometimes overcame them were from the Devil certainly, but not fatal. He appealed—

and here his eye fixed Marcian—to men and particularly to youths in the first tumult of their ripeness.

“He is a good boy,” said his father.

“He is the comfort of our old age,” said his mother. And little Galla and Justa piped up: “We like Marcian. Oh, we like Marcian much better than Perpetua. He makes us toys.”

The Bishop threw up his hands in annoyance. “Toys? Toys? O generation of vipers, who will save you from the wrath to come? It is she, she alone, that virgin who consents to sojourn amongst you, she alone averts the merited thunderbolt.” These were strong words, but he had been disturbed by the unseemly interruption in the basilica and was half-minded to pronounce an exorcism now. But there seemed insufficient evidence, so he terminated the Converse and proceeded to his bullock-cart. All accompanied him with the exception of Marcian, who exploded once more into laughter. For he, and he alone, knew how Perpetua’s virginity had been preserved.

It had been preserved as follows.

That day, five days ago, when they met the Goths, he had set forth without forebodings. Attendance on Perpetua was part of his duty, he was humble and loyal and ready to die for her if necessary. She spoke little to him on the journey out, if she did so he rode forward to receive her orders and fell back to transmit them to the slaves. He did not ask himself whether he liked her—it would have been an unseemly question—but he knew that he lay under her continuous and permanent displeasure. For some years ago he had been guilty of impurity. One of his mother’s house-girls had given him a thrill which he still remembered. His mother had beaten the girl, his father had laughed, all was passing off normally when Perpetua had a sort of fit. She called them all to her couch, and made him promise he would never be unchaste again. It was easy to promise, for he was thoroughly frightened, and being only thirteen assumed that his carnal impulses would weaken. She knew better. She had been waiting for such an opportunity as this, and she began to organize a holy spy-system with the help of the

monks who began to haunt the farm. All was done in the name of his parents, and they were watched too, and gradually the ease went out of life.

It was the price they paid for rearing a saint.

Brother and sister made a striking pair as they rode into the entangling hills—she severe, ascetic, veiled, he open to all the winds and suns of heaven, his knees and neck bare until she reminded him to cover them.

Once he started a countrified song which the retinue took up, but she stopped that and substituted a psalm. When they reached their destination he had to remain outside it, for so holy was the matron that no male creature was suffered to enter her abode. Even male mosquitoes were prohibited, the slaves said. They became ribald on the subject, and he had to check them while not wanting to do so. “Tell your mistress that it is time we left, for the sun falls towards the hills,” he told them presently. A slave passed the message through a grille to an aged woman, and after further delay Perpetua appeared.

She was even graver than before, but more disposed to talk. When they had started for home she summoned him and told him that she was now decided on perpetual virginity.

“It is God’s will, sister.”

“I shall not retire to the desert. The matron has counselled me otherwise.

I shall make my abode amongst you.”

“It is evidently God’s will—sister, look at that hawk.”

“What of it?”

“Someone has disturbed him.”

“Marcian, when will you learn seemliness?”

“Have I not? I do try.”

“I was about to speak to your edification, but you are diverted by the passing flight of a bird.”

At this moment the Goths appeared. There were only three of them, and had Perpetua kept quiet the two parties might have ridden past each other

with friendly salutation. But she lifted up her voice and prayed. “O Lord God of Hosts O God of Abraham Isaac and Jacob deliver us out of the hands of our enemies,” she cried. Her prayer was heard by the slaves and they started to run away. The Goths chased the slaves. One of them, pressing by Marcian, nicked his horse on the rump with a knife. The horse reared and he fell off. Seeing him tumble, another Goth haled Perpetua off her mule. The disaster was immediate and complete. Brother and sister bit the dust while the squeals of their retinue grew fainter and the sun dropped towards the hills with a jerk.

Further indignities followed. His ankles were bound, he was made to hop so that he fell down again amidst loud laughter, a barbarian spat in his face, another threw an overripe fig, he was flung crossways on his mount, Perpetua replaced on hers, getting pinched in the process, and then they all rode deeper into the hills. They came to a hut, a sort of storehouse, for plunder lay about, including a barrel of wine. The captives were dismounted and Marcian’s ankles freed. He began to look around him. One of them appeared to be the leader, for he gave orders and wore a magnificent torque of gold. Perpetua was engaged in prayer. He tried to comfort her, but could not gain her attention.

“Sister, I do not think we are in great danger. They seem to mean us no harm, though I cannot follow their speech. They want our mounts perhaps, not ourselves. I do not think they want us at all. They are only wild boys who do not know their own wishes or what is in their hearts.”

“O God of Abraham Isaac and Jacob deliver us.”

“Amen and I am sure he will. They are forgetting us, and soon we shall be able to walk away. I may even untether your mule so that you can escape in comfort.”

“O God…”

“And look, they are preparing food.”

“Food, brother?” The suggestion outraged her. “Unholy food.”

“It has been stolen from holy people by the look of it.”

“It is the fouler for that.”

“Sister, I must confess I am hungry.” For an animal had broken loose inside him. “You had delicate refreshment at the matron’s, I was offered nothing. With respect I must eat.” And walking boldly to the trestle where the Goths were at work he pointed to himself and said “Marcian”, and pointed to the man with the torque, who said “Euric”, and everyone laughed. The faces of the barbarians were frank, childish and powerful.

Emotions passed over them like clouds. No one, not even themselves, knew what they would do next. Having given him their best, they drank to him and to each other and to the Majesty of Rome. And they drank to Perpetua and explored her contours with bold blue eyes. She fell on her knees, not the safest of positions. One of them licked his lips, another fingered his breeks, and suddenly all five were struggling on the floor. All five, for Marcian had intervened to save her. The confusion was terrible. Ten arms, five heads and ten legs got mixed into a revolving ball whence the shrieks of the virgin and the howls of her ravishers floated out into the night.

“Sister, escape,” Marcian repeated. “I will hold them off from you. Escape.”

She escaped and he got raped.

The surprise exceeded the pain. “Not me, this can’t be for me” was his thought as the notorious Gothic embrace penetrated. Women died from it, the story went. That seed was said to breed devils. “Well, scarcely in my case.” The idea made him laugh, and he heard Euric laugh. For it had been Euric.

So like these Goths! Food and drink, lechery, sleep, fighting, food, mirth, drink, boy, girl, no difference. Euric rolled off him when satisfied and could easily have been killed. But one does not kill beasts or babies. And the other two were no longer dangerous. The force of example had proved too strong for them. Call themselves devils, did they? He knew better. What had

happened was not serious. The discomfort was already passing off and no one need know.

He hurried after his sister, found her at prayer, set her on her mule and tried to bestride his horse. A warning twinge deterred him, so he walked instead and led his precious charge down the mountain. The moon had risen and revealed landmarks he recognized. For a time she was well content and sang psalms of deliverance, but when her heart was emptied she addressed him with asperity and chid him for his ill-handling of the expedition. He did not defend himself—he had scarcely reached the age of defence—and certainly he ought not to have fallen off his horse when the Goths arrived.

Still, he felt he had made reparation of a sort and intercepted much that must have been intended for her.

“At what are you laughing?”

“I was not laughing, my sister.”

“I saw your face in the moonlight. Why tell me a lie?”

“I am not lying.”

“Marcian! Marcian! Have you even after this warning no fear of eternal damnation?” She would have said more but was checked by the sound of hoofs. She was being pursued.

Marcian led the mule into the shadow of a rock, and Euric thundered past them. He looked magnificent suddenly, the torque sparkled, his face was set in a dream. Gallop of witchcraft and vengeance. He was calling to some fiend of the night. Twisted in the rocks, it sounded to Marcian like his own name.

She began to rejoice.

“Yes, sister, he has again missed you, and I know the path down into the plain, and there you will be safe. But sister, please refrain from singing.

Your voice rings too sharp through the night and may lose you your virginity yet.”

She opened her mouth to rebuke him but fell silent. The reappearance of the Goth had frightened her, and for the first time in her life she did as she was told. With bowed head, meditating on the universe whose earthly centre she supposed herself to be, she suffered her unworthy brother to guide her.

He sought for patches of sand where the mule’s feet fell softly, he extricated her chastity from the treacherous mountain curves, night lightened, olives and vineyards crept around them at last, dawn would soon break over their father’s farm, when Euric reappeared, riding towards them, furiously.

Someone had to die this time and Marcian assumed it must be himself, and sprang into the middle of the path, ready to grapple, to be trampled on, he knew not what so long as it was his duty. But Euric swerved as they met, and bent sideways, and with both hands and terrific force crashed the torque round the boy’s neck. “Marcian!” he shouted, and this time the word rang clear. There was no doubt about it. He vanished into its echoes, leaving nothing behind him but a snake of dust.

Marcian picked himself up, bewildered. The torque fitted him and almost seemed part of him. He touched its roughnesses and discovered that they were precious stones. Why had he been given it? And so skilfully? One of those stunning feats of horsemanship which were part of the barbarian legend. And were the Goths just warriors? Could they be warlocks as well?

He took hold of the mule and led it on, and they reached the farm without further adventure, and found there confusion of another sort. For some of the slaves in their retinue had found their way back during the night, and to cover their cowardice had spread tales of a great Gothic host which had carried the young master and mistress into captivity. Lucilla and the little girls were weeping, Justus was closeted with his bailiff to discuss the best method of ransom, the neighbours had been warned, the local legion, or what remained of it, was sending troops, and the Bishop had readily pronounced an anathema. And just as the confusion was at its height the sun

rose, there were Marcian and Perpetua, she praising God as usual and he holding his head high and necklaced with gold.

Oh, then was sorrow turned into joy, as a resident catechist remarked, then was captivity led captive, and Marcian smothered in kisses. Perpetua declined any caress, for she now reserved herself for the Celestial Bridegroom, and it was not until she had changed her raiment and accepted refreshment that she consented to speak. She then related her adventures as she believed them to have occurred, and without the embellishments subsequently added to them by the Bishop. Her homily was dry and her sanctity so overwhelming that every word fell dead. “And after that I had escaped from that Den of Lions,” she concluded, “there was pursuit, but I erred as to its nature, for which no one can justly blame me. I supposed that that Son of Belial was renewing his assault, but his intention was otherwise.

He pursued me to ask my pardon.”

“But how did you understand what he said, Perpetua?” interrupted one of the little girls. “I did not know that Goths could speak.” She entertained extreme ideas about the Goths.

“I should like to know what he said, however dreadful it was,” said the other little girl. “Did he ask you to lie down?”

“Silence, Galla, silence, Justa,” their parents cried. “Here are no matters for you.” But Perpetua responded not unbenignly. Looking at them and at Marcian against whom they were nestling, she explained the situation further: the Goth had not spoken, only meaningless shouts, but had done better than speech and offered all he possessed as a tribute to her virginity: he had given her that golden torque.

“He didn’t,” cried Marcian before he could stop himself.

“He did, brother, and as an atonement for his sin. In the hope of escaping eternal punishment he cast it down at my feet.”

“He didn’t. He cast it round my neck.”

She was too secure in her sanctity to take grave offence, and all that she said was: “Brother, I am well aware of that. When I said he cast it down at my feet I spoke as David might have, poetically. It is sometimes permissible to be poetic and you would do well to study the Psalms more. Your Father Confessor shall be informed of this. He cast it round your neck because you were in attendance on me.”

“I wasn’t.” The remark was childish, yet it caused his family to stir delightedly. It was the first time she had been gainsaid for years. She ignored him, clapped her hands, and ordered the slaves to place the torque in the basilica, where it would be dedicated to God. “Father, are these your orders?” the boy cried.

Justus, still titular head of the house, looked annoyed. Lucilla ventured to say: “Daughter, we know that the ornament is yours, but our son looks so manly in it, it so suits the coming pride of his race. Daughter, could he not be allowed to display it up to the day of your own dedication?” She rejected this compromise and instructed the slaves to remove it by force. He was outraged and struggled and spat. “It is mine,” he cried, “he gave it me, and before the gods die I’ll give something to him.” No one knew what he meant, and he did not yet know himself. “Before the gods die” was a rustic oath which he ought not to have used. His parents smiled at hearing it on his lips, and it reminded them of older, easier days. “Before the gods die I’ll smack your bottom,” a peasant woman would say to her child. The torque kissed him goodbye as he blasphemed, and left upon each of his shoulders a small scarlet scar, which soon faded. Calm at once, he looked about him in a dazed fashion. “What has happened?” he asked.

His sister then arranged for him to undergo a penance. The penances were not severe. It was their frequency that enfeebled.

During the five days before the dedication he became humble and helpful, busied himself on pious little errands and duly revered Perpetua.

Their joint adventure grew dim, nothing confirmed it, and it might have

faded away but for the Bishop’s comparison of Euric to a horse. “What about me?” he thought, and exploded with laughter. For he was not ill-equipped, the slave-girl had known as much four years ago. And he longed to meet the Goth in the hills again and bring him to his knees, and since that could not be he longed for the unholiness of night.

The night came, stormy and dark after the pageantry of the day. Everyone was tired, sanctity had not brought peace. The children were excited and had fits of screaming, and the old people disputed, which was rare. Justus feared that the torque might be stolen from the altar. Lucilla argued that no spirit, however evil, would go to such lengths. Marcian took his father’s side, and undertook to set a guard. He then persuaded them to go to bed, went to his own chamber to find a cloak against the rain, and before he could put it on fell asleep.

He woke with a start, convinced that something had happened. As it had.

He had forgotten to set the guard for the basilica, and if there had been a theft—the gods help him! He sprang up and went to inspect—it was only across the courtyard. The door was ajar, but when he looked in he could see, in the faint light of candles, that nothing had been disturbed. The torque stood in its usual position.

But lovelier than usual. He had forgotten how large it was, how it glowed and curved like a snake, how its roughnesses intoxicated. He was alone with it at last and for the last time. It had been round his lover’s neck once.

The recollection made him go all faint. He swayed against it and found himself in his lover’s arms. And he knew, without being told, that Euric, Euric the trickster, had lurked about the farm all day and hidden in the shadows to take him just like this, and he prepared to meet his former fate.

But things did not go as before. Euric was somehow different. He missed opportunities and failed to strike, and presently with an impatient grunt he flung himself face downwards on the basilica floor. The caprices of the barbarians are infinite, and this time he wanted to be raped.

Well, he should be and it wouldn’t take long. The boy flung his garment off and mounted. Heaven opened and he rode like a devil, his head down, his heels in the air. Itque reditque viam totiens, as a pagan poet puts it, destillat ab inguine virus, and as it did so they fused. They had fused into a single monster such as trouble the vigils of saints. He would have withdrawn now but it was too late. Clamped by his lust, he was already half Goth, he felt heavings of laughter which became his own, they could talk without speaking, they never stopped loving, and presently they started to fly. They flew round and round the basilica and defiled it, they shot through its roof into the storm-torn night. There was a blinding lightning flash, and for one delirious moment he saw the farmyard beneath him and all the animals looking up. Then he fell through his own ceiling into his bed and awoke.

It had been a dream, and one for which he would have to do penance. But a dream so violent and warm that it must have been shared.

He sat up and reflected. After all, Goths do sometimes fly. That much is common knowledge. Only last year one of them had haled up an old woman who was hoeing turnips and dropped her into a muck-heap. They cannot fly far—the inscrutable decrees of Providence prevent them. Still, the basilica could not be called far. He got out of his bed to look at it and so discovered that it was on fire.

The alarm had already been given. Slaves shouted, children screamed, a monk pulled a bell, his mother had been hit by the bough of a falling tree. A tempest was abroad, alternating thunder with spouts of rain, and someone had unfastened the gate of the farmyard, and the horses had got out and were going wild. He found his father and they tried to establish order. The basilica, they noted, was not exactly burning, it was flickering with intense luminosity. What really mattered was the increasing panic, which they had not the skill to control.

It was stilled by the arrival of Perpetua.

Clad all in white, she issued from her apartment, advanced majestically and said, “My people, what is amiss?” It was the first time she had called everyone her people. And when she saw the quivering basilica she exclaimed: “It is the Enemy, it is the unhallowed one. By what means he entered I know not, but I will destroy him.”

“Save us,” all the people cried.

“With God’s help I will do so.”

It was at this point that Marcian flung himself across her path and said,

“Sister, desist.” She heard him but did not reply. He was beneath her attention. “Sister, do not, oh I implore you do not,” he went on. “I do not, I cannot speak but oh keep away from the place. It may be that seeds of devils—it cannot be, but do not risk it. I think I have dreamed, yet I may dream that I dreamt, in which case the white-hot droppings—” As he said this the basilica’s doors opened, and far within on the altar the torque showed scarlet. He cried: “Yes, there he is, there. We have been saved from him once—that is to say, you have and I do not signify. Let me save you again.”

She paid no heed to such childishness, but his last words annoyed her, and she permitted herself to say scornfully, “Save me, brother? You save me?” and went out intrepidly into the storm. There was a miraculous lull, and all could see her in the plenitude of her sanctitude and power. Virgo victrix, she continued her advance. She entered the basilica, and as she did so a thunderbolt fell and reduced it and her to ashes.

It was the end of the world, or so they all thought, and so the Bishop thought as soon as the state of the roads permitted him to return and investigate. He had always been suspicious of this farm and its inmates and now he ordered exorcism, but it came too late. There was nothing to exorcize. The place seemed equally dispossessed of good and of evil. He departed disconsolate, and a number of the religious followed him, leaving a spiritual void.

Only the animals remained unaffected by the catastrophe. They clucked and copulated as usual. And the fields revived after the rain and promised bumper crops. Marcian had to see to this. There was so much work to do that he had not the time to repent. He duly recognized in his spare moments that his impiety and lechery were to blame and might damn him eternally, and he duly mourned his distinguished sister and collected what could be found of her into an urn. But what a relief not to have her about! And what an economy to be free of her hangers-on! A few hermits remained, a few shrines of an earlier religion returned, no one disputed, no one denounced, and the farm began to prosper. Fortunately it lay out of the route of the barbarian invasions that devastated the rest of the province. It became a charmed spot, and Marcian became gay and happy as well as energetic, and no longer yearned nostalgically for the hills. Home sweet home was enough. His parents adored him, and he procured them a comfortable and amusing old age. His little sisters adored him, and in due time he took their virginities. He never saw Euric again but could always send him messages

—any young Goth would accept one. And he gave the name of Euric to his favourite mare, whose stable he shared on dark nights, and upon whom at the heroic moment he could be seen thundering across the sky, clamped, necklaced in gold.

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