SUNSET.
The sun which had been shining with cloudless brilliancy throughout
the day shed the rich glow of its level beams across the Via Sacra or
Appian way. In the clear transparent atmosphere, every monument and
every stately statue stood out sharply defined against the sky--a sky
of clearest azure, except at the horizon, where lines of violet and
rose-coloured clouds, tinged with gold, floated in saffron depths,
which were shaded into flaming orange below them, and to the tenderest
daffodil as it mingled in opal transparency with the blue canopy above.
The grandeur of a Roman sunset must be seen, and cannot be
described--no pen or brush can paint it; and as Anna gazed at the
glorious pageantry before her, her lips moved as she repeated in a low
voice--
“The street of the city is gold, as it were transparent glass. Surely
the gates of heaven--the heaven of the Christian’s hope--might well be
there.”
Her companion Rebekah was not thinking of the sky, nor of the grandeur
of that road between the tombs along which they passed.
A few horsemen in rich and splendid accoutrements were riding slowly
along, and on the broad footway several groups of people were walking,
and she was far more interested in them.
Presently a cry was heard that the Christians were coming. And then
there was a rush of many feet, and two women bound with cords were seen
hurried along towards the spot where Anna and her Jewish companion
stood.
“They have been captured near the Cæmeterium,” a voice said.
And then there was a sudden hush and pause; the oncoming crowd stood
still, as all eyes were turned in the opposite direction, and a voice
cried--
“The Vestal Maxima!”
“They are saved then,” exclaimed Rebekah; “all prisoners on their way
to execution have a free pardon if they are met by a vestal. And this
is the Vestal Maxima.”
Anna looked earnestly, as if she could never look away, at the stately
figure of Terentia Rufilla and the young disciple at her side,
Hyacintha Severa, as she was called.
The vestals who were in attendance were all dressed in their long
stoles of dazzling whiteness, and they were preceded by a guard of
lictors.
The child, Hyacintha, had in her hands a large quantity of flowers,
which had been gathered from the grounds of one of the spacious palaces
where Terentia Rufilla had been paying a visit.
So high was the esteem in which the priestess of Vesta was held that
the members of the Imperial family could not receive greater homage.
Those who were guarding the prisoners halted, and knelt, and Terentia
asked, in a clear ringing voice--
“Who are the prisoners, and of what rank?”
The chief lictor replied that they were peasant women of no rank or
name, and that they were obstinate followers of the false religion.
Terentia’s beautiful expressive face showed but little sign of pity,
for the Christians were enemies of her goddess, and ought to perish,
and there was in the heart of the Vestal Maxima only a sense of duty
and scarcely of satisfaction as she said--
“It is our pleasure that the captives be set free.”
To the surprise of all around, one of the women exclaimed--
“We desire not freedom; we cannot recant; we believe in Jesus the Lord.”
“To the lions with them--they want sport for the arena,” exclaimed a
voice. “If they do not recant, spare them not.”
“Oh, spare them, spare them!” exclaimed Hyacintha.
“There is no need for entreaty,” said Terentia, haughtily. “Unloose
the cords and let the women free. It is the invariable favour granted
by the priestesses of the goddess Vesta, nor can I remit it, though,
forsooth, I have rarely seen a favour so coldly received. Move on,” she
said.
And then the crowd separated, and the two prisoners’ cords being
loosed they were flung aside, with rough blows and angry exclamations.
And the people poured on towards the Coliseum, where they yet hoped to
find the beasts were not disappointed of their prey.
The two women sank down on the highway, utterly exhausted. They had
been rescued from death, but had hardly power to realise it. Anna put
her arm round one of the women, and said--
“Can I lead you home?” and Rebekah, less gently, had taken her
companion by the shoulder and tried to rouse her.
“Are they gone?” she murmured.
“They are gone where you will follow unless you rouse yourselves. Your
lives have been spared; make haste to flee.”
“Whither shall we flee?” said one poor woman. “We had come in from the
country, footsore and weary, when we were seized. We were resting on
the steps of the monument of Cæcilia Metella, when we were asked if
we had attended the great sacrifice in the temple of Jupiter. Nay, we
said, for we are Christians and worship only the Lord Jesus.”
“I can take you to comparative safety,” Anna said, “if you will come
with me. It will be a refuge for you; you will be taken care of.”
One of the women said, “We are poor peasant women, who have come into
the city to get food. The Lord seemed to point the way, and we knew
there were good Christians in Rome.”
“There are good Christians,” said Anna, “but persecution is raging
amongst them now. Lean on me and we will try to find a safe place.”
“I suppose I must not leave you,” Rebekah said, “but I would we had not
met the poor wretches.”
Then by slow degrees the poor women passed along the sacred way amongst
the great monuments of the past glory of Rome, till they turned in at a
low opening in the wall, and a voice said--
“Who enters?”
“In the name of Christ,” was Anna’s answer.
Then out of the darkness a tiny spark was seen burning. It was the
light of a lamp hung from the roof at the distance of some hundred
yards.
“I am here also,” Casca said, touching Anna’s arm. “I have escaped from
the Coliseum, where I was forced to go with Antonius.”
Anna made no rejoinder, except to put her hand upon the boy and lead
him on. The two poor peasant women and Rebekah followed, and the long
passage ended just where the lamp hung. By its dim light they crossed
to another low doorway, and then guided by another lamp, threaded
their way through several galleries and passages, till they reached an
open space where some fifty people had assembled. This larger space
was pierced through the rock and ground above with several openings,
through which the sky could be seen. Two lamps hung over the slab of
a tomb of one of the faithful departed, and there the vessels for the
Holy Communion were placed.
A young deacon was speaking when Anna and her friends came in, leading
the poor women by the hand. The young deacon ceased speaking, and
inquired the names of the new-comers, and their errand.
“I have brought this youth,” Anna said, “a Roman of noble birth, who is
anxious to know more of the Faith. This young woman is a Jewess, and
these peasants,” she continued, “have just been rescued from the jaws
of death. They were being dragged to the arena, when they were met by
a procession of vestal virgins and released.” Several of the little
assembly rose, and made the new-comers welcome, getting food and drink
for them, in their fainting condition, from one of the openings behind
the tombs.
The Catacombs at Rome are now visited by many--and what pictures rise
out of the past as the long subterranean passages become peopled with
the early Christians, who bore thither their dead, laying them in the
tombs cut out of the rock, and encircling them with all the tender
memories of Him whom they believed to have opened the Kingdom of Heaven
to all believers.
The word Catacomb, is, we are told, modern; but the Greek word,
Cæmeteria, or sleeping place, was the one dear to the Christians, and
always used by them to express their faith in the words--“Them that
sleep in Jesus shall God bring unto Him.”
It was this sleeping in Christ and this glorious awakening, which to
those early Christians, with their simple unwavering faith, was a near
and great reality, of which the preacher spoke that night.
Casca, who had been studying deeply since he came to Rome the words of
poets and philosophers, who had listened with profound attention to the
learned orations from the Rostra, and who had, even before he had left
Verulam, pondered much the mysteries of life and death, now followed
every word with hungry eagerness.
The spirit of unbelief in the old system of the gods was spreading
rapidly.
The Olympus of old Rome was fading into thin air.
Many in the educated and higher ranks of society went through the form
of attending the sacrifices, and offering at the shrines on appointed
festivals, who felt it was but a form.
But here, in the dim seclusion of the Catacombs, there was no formal
acceptance of a creed--the Christian faith was to the faithful an
indwelling reality.
The young deacon who had questioned or catechised the congregation,
and instructed them by the familiar form of question and answer, was
followed by an older man, a priest, who had been consecrated by the
bishop or overseer of that hidden Church in the Catacombs of St.
Calixta.
He, too, noticed and welcomed the strangers whom Anna had brought,
and Casca, the young Roman, in his new and handsome toga virilis,
interested him, and he drew him aside and gave him a roll of
manuscript, promising to supply him with others when he returned these.
It was St Paul’s Epistle to the Hebrews, and from the portion which
tells of the great cloud of witnesses the priest founded a discourse,
or, as we should call it, a sermon. He spoke of the invisible watchers
over that hidden Church; many had been sufferers for Christ, and their
bodies were lying in niches of those long galleries awaiting the call
of their Master, which would be surely heard when He came to claim His
own. He spoke of the dangers which surrounded the living, the torture
and the flame, the terrible ordeal of fire, or the fierce conflict
with the beasts. He described the scene which had been enacted in the
Coliseum that very day, and he bade them all remember that their turn
might come next.
Were they ready? or would they faint and fail in the trial hour?
They could do all things through Christ, who strengthened them, and he
would not allow that one would turn back on the way to win the crown,
though the cross might be exceeding bitter and a sore burden.
Prayers followed, and then the little company were bidden to rest till
the dawn broke. Just before cock-crow the priest called them to awake
and draw near to receive the bread and wine for the refreshing of their
souls in remembrance of the sacrifice of Christ. It was the first time
that Casca or the young Jewess had ever seen that solemn service. It
was familiar to Anna, and her thoughts went back to the forests of
Britain and the Radburn cave, where the holy Amphibalus had broken that
bread and drunk of that cup, when dangers of every kind were near.
It was no new thing to the British slave to feel that the profession of
the Christian faith was the signal of danger. The scenes in the forest,
in the dark dungeon, were still as vivid as ever; but Casca had yet to
count the cost. The Jewish maiden felt herself drawn to this Christ of
whom the priest spoke. The lines round her mouth softened, and tears
gathered on her long dark lashes, like rain-drops, and slowly ran down
her cheeks.
If only she dare believe that this Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah
for whom her people had looked for so long! but surely He, that
long-looked-for King, would come with imperial pomp and greatness; not,
as these his followers said, as the child of a humble mother, to die a
shameful death, such as malefactors died!
Ah! that death of Christ! therein was hidden the _Life_, though she
knew it not as yet, nor could discern it.
The little congregation were to separate at dawn, and Casca was led by
Anna through the long and tortuous galleries to another entrance than
that by which they had come in.
It was scarcely more than a hole in the hill-side, and concealed by
the immense profusion of the rare yellow-berried ivy, which still hangs
upon the Walls of the Appian Way.
When they reached the opening, Anna said--
“We must part here, dear master. I counsel you to conceal the
manuscript carefully, and read it with prayer in secret. We may meet no
more; for you pass now to the grand life of Antonius, and I must remain
in the Jews’ quarter, and you must run into no danger in seeking me
out. But I am often to be found here at dark after sunset, and before
sunrise, and it may be that the desire of my heart may be granted, and
you will seek baptism at the hands of the Father in Christ who spoke
to us this night. Ah! it is morning now; speed on your way.” Then Anna
swept the overhanging branches of ivy over the opening with her hand,
and disappeared, while Casca turned towards the city along the Appian
Way.
The first faint pallor of the dawn was touching the colossal figures on
the tombs, as Casca passed along.
In the dim and shadowy light these monuments of the past seemed even
more majestic than in the broad glare of the noonday sun. The boy’s
heart was filled with a yearning longing after some certainty about the
future life which was almost pain.
All the great warriors who had fallen in battle for their country
covered with glory, whom these monuments commemorated--where had they
gone? That dim region of the dead, whence the old traditions said some
favoured ones had been snatched by the strong arm of the gods, and
returned to those who loved them--where was it? Had it, indeed--as many
thought in Rome--no existence but in the songs of the poet and in the
marble of the sculptor?
If the great multitude of whom nothing remained but their ashes in the
urns which were deposited in the grand monuments were utterly gone; if
the life which had ended on the battle-field, or by their own hand was
over--quite over--how short it was! All hopes and fears, and learning
and culture, at an end. Death! which must then mean nothingness?
But a voice in the boy’s soul told him of immortality; that living
witness within seemed to call on him to believe that the spirit within
him _could not die_. With what certainty had the priest spoken of the
cloud of living witnesses--living, caring for those on earth--_loving_
them still! Surely, if this were true, it was a grander and nobler
thought than the consignment to the depth of Hades, or the utter
passing away and annihilation of which so many orators he had lately
heard declare was the fate of every man! Casca thought of his beautiful
young sister in the temple of Vesta, and remembered all their sweet
converse at home in the Villa of Severus, and on the long and perilous
journey to Rome. But she had gained her heart’s desire, and she was
satisfied. Surely her sweet young face, as he had seen it in the garden
on the Cælian Hill, had a happy and satisfied halo shed over it!
He had never seen her look so happy before. She had left the luxurious
frivolous life behind her, and had entered upon her training for what
was considered the very highest vocation for a Roman maiden. She had
the privileges and honours of a vestal virgin before her--possibly she
might reach the highest office of all, and her father’s rank made this
probable; and then, as Vestal Maxima, Hyacintha would have fulfilled
the most sanguine desires which any one who knew her could cherish.
And yet even that must end. Hyacintha must die and pass away from the
temple; her beauty must fade, her powers fail; death would not spare
the vestal virgin any more than the humblest peasant woman, like those
who had knelt with bowed heads and uplifted hands before the priest,
when he had given thanks for their preservation from the lions.
Yes, death must pass on all men, and Anna, the British slave, had been
very near death; but she looked beyond, to the crowd of invisible
witnesses, to Jesus, who had, so the priest said, “Overcome death, and
opened the gates of the kingdom.”
Casca remembered Ebba in the days that were past--uncertain, trembling,
fearful; but now that she had confessed Christ openly, she had a look
of resolute purpose on her face, and her plain features were often
shining with a light which Casca felt was the light of a steadfast
faith, which no cruel death, no terrible torture, could extinguish.
When the boy reached the villa of Antonius it was broad daylight, and
the outer court was filled with slaves and servants preparing for the
morning meal and the day’s pleasure.
Several young men were returning from the night’s carousal, and jested
with each other on the speed with which the young Casca had assumed all
the privileges of his manhood. They made many allusions which Casca did
not understand, and he passed through the atrium, anxious to find his
way to the rooms which had been appointed for him.
Two attendants or slaves were waiting for him, and prepared to conduct
him to the bath, which, with its rich mosaic pavement, was a necessary
appendage to every Roman villa.
The visit to the public baths came later in the day, for these baths
were the resorts of fashion and pleasure. The two slaves helped Casca
to lay aside his dress, and as the toga slipped off the manuscript roll
fell out.
The elder slave picked it up, and a curious expression flitted over
his face, but he was silent. Indeed, unless permitted to speak, these
household slaves were generally silent in the presence of their
superiors.
All Casca’s possessions of books and rolls and pens and parchments were
placed in a large coffer, and the slave, lifting the lid, dropped the
manuscript into it.
Then the work of the morning proceeded. Casca was conducted to the
bath, and when he had bathed his limbs in the clear water, he was
rubbed with some sweet-scented ointment, and then sprinkled with
perfume.
After this a long linen robe was thrown over him, and he was led back
to his room, where two more slaves awaited him, with richly-chased cups
and flagons, and some delicate dishes for the morning meal.
When he had eaten, the chamber was darkened by the drawing of
violet-coloured curtains over the doors, and then he was left to dream
away the early part of the day, till the time came for resorting to the
public baths or the Coliseum, where there was frequently a hand-to-hand
gladiatorial fight, and wrestling with beasts.
Antonius troubled himself very little about his new inmate; he had
received him in accordance with the wishes of Severus, and he was to
take him to the palace at a convenient season, where he was to hold
some office about the Emperor’s person, when duly qualified.
In this life, marked out for him by his father, Casca would have been
miserable, had it not been for his studies and for the interest which
his visits to the Cæmeteria awakened in him. Little by little the boy
withdrew himself from the scenes of license and indulgence which formed
the atmosphere of the villa. He was, like one who had gone before him,
almost persuaded to be a Christian, and yet he held back. He was afraid
to profess what he did not really feel, and when he heard of many
who recanted at the last moment to avoid the torture or the fire, he
would argue with himself that it was better to be assured of his own
faith before he openly professed what in the hour of trial he might be
tempted to recant.
He was not sure of his own heart. Sometimes he was lost in a maze
of doubt and uncertainty; at others he resigned himself to the calm
philosophy of the schools, which looked down from a high vantage-ground
on the old and young faith alike, and taught that the life of man on
earth, fleeting though it was, was all. No beyond, and therefore, no
anxiety as to the future--no cold shadow of dark fear.
“Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die,” was the watchword of
thousands in Rome in those days.
Then there were moments when, after careful study of the manuscript
which had been lent to him, he would be strangely moved, and St. Paul’s
eloquent description of all those _who had died in the faith_ would
fasten upon his imagination. Was not the same spirit of endurance
abroad at that very time? Some two hundred and seventy years had gone
by since St. Paul had made up that grand roll of names of those who
esteemed the reproach of Christ greater riches than any treasure, and
there was the same tale of suffering being told for the faith of which
these men and women were the valiant defenders. They had received the
promise, which promise reached beyond death to the life eternal. “If
only,” Casca thought, “he could know that it was true, would he not
have strength given him to confess Christ openly.” Then the natural
disposition of the boy asserted itself, and he would turn back to the
philosophy of the schools, and try to rest upon the hope rather than
the belief that there was no beyond.
Like many since that time, Casca could not surrender his heart, and,
lost in the mists of human reasoning, he could not become a little
child that he might be wise.
Casca’s natural sweetness of disposition won him friends in that large
and pleasure-seeking household, and the taunts and scoffs that he had
at first to endure, for his pure living and dislike of over-indulgence
and luxury, ceased. It was universally allowed that Casca, the son of
Severus, must be left to go on his own way undisturbed, and as he never
offended any one, it was by common consent conceded that no one should
offend him.