A.D. 333--ALEXANDRIA.
Again many years have passed away, and Casca, the son of Severus, is
leaning back in his old languid fashion on a couch placed near a window
commanding one of the loveliest views upon which the eyes of man have
ever rested.
The house was near that magnificent Museum of Alexandria, which,
with its famous library, was famous beyond all fame of later times,
a fitting treasure-house for its precious manuscripts, and raising a
grand white roof against a sky whence rain seldom fell, and turning its
noble frontage of pillars and fresco toward the sapphire plain of the
tideless Mediterranean.
There were no signs of undue luxury about Casca. The furniture of his
room was simple, and yet suggestive of grace and elegance. Large piles
of manuscripts lay on shelves, ranged on one side of the room, and
in another were the toys of a child, heaped up in confusion, as they
had evidently been left by some little tired fingers that were weary
of play. The room where Casca sat was divided by a portière from an
inner chamber, and a murmur might be heard from it of a woman’s voice,
singing in low monotonous tones.
Below the wide open window there was borne on the soft warm air
the sound of chariot wheels passing in the street; the cry of the
charioteer, the voice of the newsman, and now and then the low growl,
which told that the menagerie was near at hand. The sound which was
“the electric touch” that the Poet speaks of, awoke memories in Casca’s
heart of that day, so many years before, when the roar of the wild
beasts which were to tear the Christians to pieces, floated to his ear
as he passed by the Forum to the schools at Rome. He remembered the
horror he had always felt at such sounds, and how once when Antonius
had insisted on his accompanying him to a great fight with the beasts,
he had fainted away, and on recovery had heard the mocking laugh of
some of his companions, and the scornful words of Antonius:--
“Bear him hence; he has not the courage of an infant of days.”
How dreamlike it all seemed now--the fate of his patron Antonius, his
flight, disgraced and dishonoured, from his princely villa; the return
for a time to the house of Clœlia; and then the sudden resolve to cast
in his lot with the old Jew Ezra, and some of his people, who were
bound for Alexandria, learning that trade in precious stones and gold
was making the fortune of some of the Jewish race, who were forming a
large colony there.
His father, Severus, cared little what became of him, and after his
mother’s death and his second marriage with Junia he had heard but
rarely of him.
When he first came to Alexandria, he had to live partly by the office
of scribe, but by degrees his scholarship attracted attention, and his
quickness in deciphering old manuscripts, and his acquaintance with
many languages, for which he had a natural gift, was in his favour.
Casca Severus was now held in honour amongst the literary world of
Alexandria, holding a post in the magnificent library as custodian and
secretary, which had raised him to a position of competence if not
affluence.
Some years before this time, Casca had married the daughter of a Greek
merchant, a beautiful gentle girl, who though less of a companion to
her learned husband than a joy for her beauty and goodness, was most
dear to him. After some years of waiting a little daughter was given
to them, and from the moment of her birth the mother drooped and faded
before Casca’s eyes.
Old Ezra’s death happened about this time, and Anna, the Saxon Ebba,
returned to serve Casca, and to take charge of his motherless child.
The Greek name of Hyacintha, which had been given to Casca’s sister,
was now passed on to his little daughter, and the name was as a sound
of music in Anna’s ears.
The dreaming over the past in which Casca indulged that morning was
broken in upon by the sound of footsteps, and one of his servants drew
aside the curtain from the doorway, and admitted a tall soldier-like
man with grizzled beard, and a face bronzed with exposure, who advanced
towards him with outstretched hands, pronouncing his name--
“Casca!”
“Claudius, is it possible!” was the almost instant reply, and then the
two men looked at each other with that curious inquiring gaze with
which we scan the features of those whom we have known in youth, and
meet in later years.
Time had dealt very gently with the scholar and philosopher. Casca’s
high brow, from which the hair had retreated, was smooth and but
gently marked by lines. His hands, which had wielded the pen to so
much purpose, were white and slender, and his robe fell around him in
graceful folds.
As he and Claudius stood, with their right hands clasped together
and their left resting on each other’s shoulders, they made a fine
contrasted picture of the scholar and the soldier.
Claudius was tall and stalwart, his skin bronzed with exposure to the
sun, several scars of sabre cuts on his brow and cheek, and many deep
wrinkles on his brow, still shadowed by thick masses of tawny hair
which, like his beard, were lined with silver.
“Yes,” Claudius said, “we meet after many years.”
“Do you come from Rome?” Casca asked, “or from Verulam?”
“From Rome,” and Claudius sighed. “From Rome, and I bear you tidings of
your sister, now the Vestal Maxima.”
“Hyacintha!” exclaimed Casca, “she is always dear to my heart, but her
life is on the mountain top, and we poor folk are on a lower level.”
Claudius shook his head.
“The mountain top is but a barren waste to her, I fear. She has much
trouble, and her elevation is dearly bought.”
“Sit down and tell me all,” Casca said. “Ah! good Claudius, it is like
a draught of new wine to see you. Strange that when you entered I was
going over the past--the little chamber at Verulam, Hyacintha sitting
by my side, and your loud ringing voice bidding me meet life as a man,
and not as a coward. Brave advice, whether for the scholar or soldier,
eh, good Claudius?”
“Yes; but methinks, Casca, it is you who must now cheer me, for my
heart is heavy within me, and I scarce dare to look forward or to look
within. You speak of those far-off days. Do you think I have forgotten
them? Nay, they are written on my heart. I would that I were a careless
fellow again, wrestling in the games at Verulam, and contented because
I knew of no life greater than the soldier’s. I am a Christian, it is
true, and ought to rejoice; but, somehow, there is no rejoicing left in
me.”
“I pray you, good Claudius,” Casca said, “do not speak thus. I, too,
have had my sorrows. I have lost my fair young wife, Ianthe, and no
grief can be greater than mine was; but I can rejoice yet in the powers
God has given me, and I live for Him and for our child.”
“Ah! then, Casca, yours is not a desolate, lonely life like mine. I
think, it is true, of the life beyond, and I crave for it with wearying
longing; but the beloved of my soul, your sister Hyacintha, is in
bitter trouble, and I, who would die for her, cannot move, or stretch
forth a finger, to help her.”
And now, just as Casca was about to ask Claudius to tell him
everything, the sound of little naked feet pattering on the floor was
heard, and the curtain which separated Casca’s room from the inner
chamber shook, and from the division in the middle peeped out a little
sunny face, rosy with sleep, with eyes yet dim from dreams, and coral
lips drooping at the corners, as she caught sight of a strange man in
earnest conversation with her father. Casca rose and held out his arms,
and then there was a sudden rush and a pair of clinging arms wound
round his neck, as Cynthia buried her golden head on his shoulder and
said:--
“Send away that big old man.”
“Nay, nay, my Cynthia, that is not the courtesy I would fain teach
thee,” said another voice; and turning, Claudius saw an elderly woman,
plainly dressed in a loose woollen garment, girt around the waist by a
broad belt, and wearing on her head a close cap, which concealed her
hair.
“Nay, my Cynthia,” she repeated--and then Claudius laid his hand on her
arm.
“Do you not know me, Ebba?”
The great tide of memory swept over poor Anna; danger, torture, the
dungeon, and the death she had so dreaded, seemed to cover her again
with a great mantle of fear. Her knees trembled, and she would have
fallen forward had not Claudius’s strong arms prevented it.
“Poor Ebba!” Claudius said, “do you think you are in the dungeons
again?”
“Oh! pardon me, my noble Claudius! You know I was ever but a coward,
and now that I see you, my deliverer from death, I have no words to
thank you.”
“I need no words, good Ebba. I have lived long enough now to know that
there are worse sorrows than death, which must pass on all men, to be
borne. The Lord, who is now my Master as well as yours, sent me to save
your life for a good purpose, I will not doubt.”
“And you, too, are a Christian, thanks be to God!” Anna exclaimed
fervently. “See there, my Cynthia, here is the great Claudius who, at
the request of thy beautiful Aunt Hyacintha, my once dear mistress,
took me out of a dark dungeon, and saved my life. Say ‘Good Claudius!’”
The child, who had raised her wondering face from her father’s
shoulder, now stretched out her arms towards the tall warrior, who had
at first frightened her, and said:--
“Good Claudius!” touching his cheeks with her hand.
“And can you tell me aught of my dear mistress, the lady Hyacintha?”
Anna asked.
“Yes; I have a tale to tell, but it is a sad tale.”
“Take Cynthia in your arms, and sit down, Anna,” said her master. “You,
of all others, ought to hear the tale, be it sad or joyful.”
“Yes,” Claudius said, “there is no reason why you should be in
ignorance of what is in my heart. Nay, I doubt not you know it already,
and that it will, as regards myself, scarcely be news. From my rough
boyish days at Verulam I have loved your dear mistress, and I must love
her always. Though never to be mine in this lower world, I may claim
her yet when all earthly taint of sin has passed away.
“Since the death of Terentia Rufilla, the life of your gracious and
beautiful sister has been full of trial, noble Casca. Bitter jealousy
and envy of her acquirements have been rife in the community. Fair
without these white-robed Vestals may appear, but they not all are fair
within.
“By the voice of the majority, and by the dying desire expressed again
and again by the late Vestal Maxima, Terentia Rufilla, Hyacintha Severa
was elected to succeed her. There was none so fitted as she was; her
rank, as the daughter of a noble house, so high; her accomplishments
and graces of mind and body so rare. But there never was a creature
like her who did not provoke jealousy and ill-will in some minds. Evil
tongues have set afloat rumours concerning her, which, though at first
none heeded, have been like fertile seed cast here and there, and at
last taking root.
“It is not possible for me to see her. Some of the evil rumours say
that she has desired to renounce her vow, and, becoming a Christian,
be free to marry. Were I to present myself at the Vestals’ atrium
it might fasten the charge of aspiring to her on me, and add to her
trouble. Her rule, as those who know it well declare, has been marked
by its wonderful wisdom. The young disciples well-nigh worship her, the
priests consult her on every matter connected with the sacred rites.
The one who works the mischief is the daughter of a princely house, who
desires the highest office.
“Finding all other accusations fail, she now insinuates that the Vestal
Maxima is a Christian in disguise, and that she merits the death of the
faithless virgin.”
“Oh! may God forbid,” exclaimed Anna--“oh! may the Lord protect my
mistress.”
“I think,” Claudius continued, “that they will be saved the trouble of
condemning her. The last time I saw her leading the procession along
the Sacred Way, she looked so wan and ill, and she leaned so heavily on
the shoulder of one of the young priestesses, and the expression of her
beautiful eyes as she turned them upon me was so mournful that----”
Claudius stopped; emotion checked him.
“Is there aught that I can do,” Casca asked, starting up; “aught to
relieve the burden which lies upon my sister! Tell me, Claudius, is
there a way to help her?”
“It was to beg you to start for Rome for her solace and comfort that I
journeyed hither,” Claudius said.
“I will start willingly,” Casca exclaimed, “and take Anna and my little
one with me. Surely the touch of her sweet kisses, the sound of her
merry laughter, will do much to console my sister! Yes; we will return
together, good Claudius. Shall it be next month?”
“Nay, next month may be too late; the journey is long; set forth
without delay, or it may be too late--too late,” he repeated.
“I will give orders to that effect. You have a band of your own people
here?”
“Yes, my galley is manned with a brave band, and lies in the Port to be
ready at any moment. My ship is fitted with all things needful for her
voyage, and it remains for you to give the word for starting from this
fair city, the fairest that men’s eyes ever beheld.”
“Anna, are you ready?”
“Ready at my master’s word,” Anna said; “but the child, the sweet
child, is it safe for her?”
“As safe as man can make it; the voyage in this fair weather ought to
be a pleasurable one; there are no hardships to fear, good Anna! and
I mistake me if any sea robbers will dare attack the ships manned by
soldiers who have seen service under their commander in many a battle
in the far north, with those rough Northmen who seem to be ever closing
round the southern folk in increasing numbers and with added strength.
Give but the word, Casca, and we will start ere the sun sets.”
“Nay, a week hence,” was Casca’s reply. “I have to deliver a lecture
to-morrow in the south hall of the museum. I am pledged to expound a
hard passage of a Greek Poet on the day but one after--I----”
“You have much to do truly,” said Claudius, impatiently. “Of such
labours of the brain I know nought; but this, I say, I believe your
sister hungers for a sight of you, and yearns to clasp your hand in
hers. She cannot speak of her faith, which has slowly risen like the
sun upon her soul, and dispersed the darkness. She may and does love
those around her as her children, but she cannot talk openly with them,
lest haply they should be condemned and punished with a punishment even
more severe than that which might fall on her. But delay your departure
if you will--it is not for a rough soldier like me to enter into the
reasons which a subtle and learned scholar may have for remaining here.
I know what a true heart means, and I have a strong sword-arm to prove
it, but as to the brain of you philosophers and poets, I know nothing
of it, having, as you will say, but a small share thereof myself.”
“Nay, now, good Claudius, do not misjudge me; do not be angry. We will
be ready in the next week; meantime let us renew our close friendship,
and let me show you the treasures of the past and of the present,
contained within the walls of yonder stately pile of buildings, which
is the museum of the world!”
Claudius’s temporary vexation passed away, and the two friends found
themselves knit together by a hundred subtle ties in the far-off past
of their early life.
Claudius listened with surprise to Casca, as he detailed all the
varied phases of thought through which he and many hundreds of men had
passed in Alexandria. Casca was a Christian--that is to say he had
been baptised, and if questioned as to his faith, he would have given
a direct answer that he believed in the true God and his Son Jesus
Christ. But there could be no doubt that the learning of the schools
had the greatest charm for him, and if he studied the manuscripts of
the Gospels, it was more in a critical than a faithful spirit.
He considered the writing of St. Luke’s Gospel so perfect that he
gloried in its study, and he showed Claudius a beautiful copy inscribed
by his own hand, with notes on the margin, for which he told him he had
won high praise and distinction.
The old heathen worship, he said, was dying, and the temples were more
and more deserted day by day. But Casca had not embraced the faith of
Christ with the simplicity of a child; it was rather the acceptance of
a finer theory than any he had yet discerned.
That witness within himself, of which Claudius had spoken to Hyacintha
long before, was wanting; and lost in the mazes of thought, and
yielding to the delight of learning, Casca had missed the humble
faith in a personal Saviour, which had taught the brave Claudius
self-restraint and self-forgetfulness, and made him, the valiant hero
of a hundred fights, humble in his own eyes.
Casca showed Claudius the leading features of interest in Alexandria,
and the bustle and activity of the representatives of many nations
filled the Roman soldier with wonder; for at this time Alexandria, the
greatest sea-port in the world, was crowded with buyers and sellers,
and rich merchant princes from all quarters.
Through the great Moon Gate there was a perpetual stream of camels, and
elephants, and humble asses, all laden with merchandise.
Jews were there, with keen eager eyes; Greeks, with their graceful easy
carriage and soft musical tongue; Romans, too, and representatives of
the great Northern tribes, of which Claudius had spoken.
Rome, the city on the seven hills, had filled the dreams of his boyhood
in Britain; it had been to him as a queen amongst cities in his later
years, but Alexandria was like a vision.
The ranges of buildings were so vast, and the unbroken line presented
a _coup d’œil_ of magnificence scarcely if ever rivalled. Claudius
gazed around him, and but imperfectly heard or understood Casca’s
descriptions and explanations. He was dazzled and bewildered, and he
could only reply to Casca in monosyllables, which were scarcely less
irritating to Casca than silence.
The friends who greeted Casca looked inquiringly at Claudius, and he
felt he had no part or lot in Alexandria; her beauty was a dead letter
to him, and all her treasures of art and literature sealed books. While
Casca lectured in the museum or attended the orations of philosophers,
Claudius found his chief delight centred in little Cynthia. She brought
back the old, old days when the other Hyacintha was the child, and he,
a rough untaught boy, felt always softened and subdued by her presence.
He loved to take the Cynthia of the present on his knees, and while she
toyed with his rough beard, and the ornaments on his military coat,
he would listen to her babyish prattle, which was made up of various
languages, and find in her society far more consolation than in the
declamations of the orators and poets in the lecture-rooms of the
museum.
Anna was much engaged with her preparations for departure, and leaving
all things in Casca’s household in good order. She would look in on
the great soldier sometimes and smile, and bid the child not be too
troublesome, or the good Claudius would weary of her.
Anna had taught the little Cynthia the Gospel story, and Claudius found
that the Lord, who was his acknowledged Master, was a very real Being
to Casca’s little daughter. With the unquestioning faith of the little
child, Cynthia needed no other assurance than “Anna says so,” and
Claudius loved to hear her tell of the birth of the Lord Jesus, and of
the little babes who were killed for His sake.
Cynthia was scarcely more than four years old, but she had inherited
her father’s gifts and her mother’s Greek grace and delicacy, so that
she was wonderfully forward for her age. She would draw with a pointed
stick, dipped in her father’s horn, upon the spare sheets of parchment
which lay about, and she could already form letters, though her great
idea was to “draw pictures.”
Claudius would tell her of her aunt, the Vestal Maxima, at Rome, and
that they were going over the blue sea to see her and comfort her.
“I know,” Cynthia said, one day; “I know you loved that lady, and
took Anna out of a dark hole because you promised. She was shut there
because she loved Jesus the Lord. Do you know Him? Father never says
‘love;’ he says ‘worship.’ I don’t know what that means!”
No; little Cynthia knew only of love, nor had her childish heart
grasped as yet the great reality that love--perfect love--is the
highest form of worship. For love must serve, and service is adoration,
and so the circle is complete, and love must be in all service and in
all worship, and both are valueless without it.
The day for departure came at last, and the finely-equipped galley in
which Claudius had sailed from Rome turned her helm towards the mouth
of the great canal at Alexandria, and with sails set, and oars keeping
precise time and rhythm, went over the Lake Mareotis, and thence out
into the blue waters of the tideless sea. The yellow sand-hills of the
desert shone like burnished gold in the evening light; the multitude
of sails stood up against the carmine sky which melted above the line
of the horizon into the tenderest rose-colour, and again into the
palest colour of the calyx of the daffodil, till it was lost in the
over-arched blue of the summer night.
Stars studded that canopy like eyes of watching love, and Claudius,
seated with his little friend, pressed close in his strong arms, felt
his whole soul filled with the love of Him who is the Redeemer of the
world, and of _him_--wayworn and weary Claudius.
Casca strained his eyes over the lines of a closely-written manuscript
till the light faded, and then Anna carried away little Cynthia, to the
bed prepared for her, where the murmur of the waves against the sides
of the ship soon lulled her to sleep.