TRIUMPH.
Hermione did not live long after the reception of this letter. She
kissed it many times, and kept it safe in the breast of her robe, never
allowing any eye to read it, never telling its contents to any mortal
ear.
Sometimes a smile would flit over her sad face as she pictured the
bright and happy Cynthia--the child grown into the woman, the loved and
loving wife of a brave, good man.
Hermione had to suffer much, and the few lines she traced before
her death, addressed to Cynthia, did not reach Alexandria till long
afterwards.
But they breathed of hope in the lovingkindness of the Redeemer of the
world, and told of the humble assurance, that, like as a father pities,
He had pitied her, and would of His mercy receive her to the home of
the blest in heaven.
Hermione’s death was felt to be a relief by the Vestal Maxima, Cœlia
Concordia, who now held undisputed sway in the Vestals’ House. As we
know, she loved the power the office gave her. When Hermione passed
away, a gleam of triumph might be seen to glance from those dark
eagle-like eyes; for another obstacle was removed from her path,
and the accomplishment of a long cherished scheme became easier. The
priests, who had decreed that her predecessor’s memory should be
crystallised for future generations by the laudatory lines engraved on
the pedestal on which her statue was raised, were all in their turn
consigned to the sacred Pomœrium, and their names were soon forgotten.
It did not deeply affect the friend of the great Prætextatus to see the
old and the feeble pass away. She was known and admired in the highest
circles of the time at Rome; but love never seemed to come near her or
soften her proud heart.
* * * * *
It was in the stillness of the night, when all the Vestals but the one
who watched in the temple were sleeping, some fifteen years after the
death of Hyacintha, that the tall commanding figure of Cœlia Concordia
passed between the columns of the atrium, bearing a lamp in her hand.
She threaded her way cautiously in the darkness, her silver lamp
casting a ray of bright light before her. She paused at last before the
statue of Hyacintha Severa, and, waving her lamp up and down, examined
the clearly-cut noble features with a triumphant smile.
“Shall thy name live?” she asked, as if addressing the statue, “nay,
thy name shall perish; if I am powerless for aught else, I am powerful
for this.” Then she put down the lamp, and drew from the folds of her
pallium a sharp instrument. She examined the blade carefully, and
kneeling so that she was on a level with the pedestal, she began to
scrape out the letters of the name she hated.
It was no easy task, but at last it was accomplished, and nothing but
the number remained:--
“No. XIII.” Which signified simply the order in which the statues stood
in the atrium.
“Thy name has perished,” she said, rising and addressing the noble
face, which seemed to answer her bitter smile with a quiet calm beauty.
“Thy name has perished, thy praises shall remain, but when future
generations shall ask to whom their false flattery refers, there shall
be but one answer:--
“No. XIII.”
When the erasure of the name was discovered in the light of the next
morning, inquiries were made, but without success. Various opinions
were expressed, and it was generally supposed that some one, through
wanton mischief, had erased the name.
At first there was a talk of re-inscribing it, but the Vestal Maxima
always found some excuses for delay, and at length, as all who had
loved her had passed away, the subject dropped out of memory, and
Hyacintha was forgotten.
* * * * *
It was in the reign of Constantius, in the year 357, that the Emperor
paid a visit to the ancient capital of his empire. Julian had married
Helena, and had been accepted as Cæsar of the west, at Milan, with
loud acclamations, while Constantius proceeded along the Emilian and
Flaminian ways, to Rome.
The grandeur of that procession has been described at length, and a
splendid train of nobles and courtiers took part in it.
The Emperor took up his abode in the ancient Palace of Augustus, and,
we are told, presided in the Senate, assisted at the games, and that
the thirty days he passed in the city may be described as one long
festival.
Delighted with his reception in Rome, and filled with the sense of his
own importance, Constantius cast about in his mind for some suitable
gift to the city, which should eternally mark his satisfaction with it
and with himself!
At first, we are told that he wished to imitate the colossal statue in
the Forum of Trajan, but finally he decided on presenting the city with
the huge obelisk which his father, Constantine, had removed from the
Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis and floated down the Nile to Alexandria.
This decision gave universal satisfaction. Orders were at once
dispatched to Alexandria for the transmission of the obelisk.
A ship of huge proportions and strength was provided to convey this
enormous mass of granite from the banks of the Nile to the Tiber.
The command of the expedition was entrusted to a man of high family and
reputation in Alexandria, and preparations for departure were speedily
completed.
Heraclitus was seated with the parchments and drafts before him, in
his own beautiful home at Alexandria, lost in thought, wondering if
the enormous outlay required would not exceed the expectations of the
Emperor and his officers of state, when a light hand was laid on his
shoulder.
“Take me to Rome with thee, dear husband, I pray thee.”
“Nay, nay, my pretty one,” was the reply, “the voyage may not be a
quick one, thy health might suffer, and if the huge obelisk is swamped
by the way, there will be great delay and danger to me, for I am
responsible.”
“Dear husband,” said the sweet voice, “I have a longing to see Rome.
Thou knowest I went thither as a little child, with my dear father,
and nurse, and dear good old Claudius. I pray thee, do not refuse me
my prayer. I have a dim dreamy memory of my beautiful aunt, the Vestal
Maxima, who died in the faith of Christ. I should like to see the place
where she lived, and the spring on the Cælian Hill, where Claudius
said she looked like an angel, as she filled her vase from the pure
fountain. Dear husband, grant my request.”
She had been the happy wife of Heraclitus for some years now. Her
father had died in the preceding summer. Claudius and Anna had both
passed away, and Cynthia, who was standing with her hand on her
husband’s shoulder, urging her plea, is the only link left with those
whose lives, or rather the fragments of whose lives, we have followed
in this story.
Cynthia had known sorrow: one by one her children had faded in their
infancy, and died before she had fully tasted the sweetness of
motherhood.
Perhaps it was the remembrance of this trouble, which had left its
trace on the fair face which was bending over him, that made Heraclitus
feel as if he would not refuse his wife’s request.
“Dear husband,” she pleaded, “I have but thee, and what should I do for
all the long months of thy absence, alone?”
“My sweet one, it is a long voyage, and my mind is so occupied with the
business in hand, the arrangements, and the responsibility which lies
on my shoulders, may so engross me, that I may seem cold and neglectful
of thee.”
“As if that could be! I will not trouble thee with questions; let me
have my own galley, and my maidens, and thou canst come to me for
solace and comfort. Remember, dear husband, I have none but thee to
love, since God has willed that no dear little ones should gladden my
life. I am never lonely with thee, but without thee!”
Heraclitus threw down his quill, and pushed the parchments and charts
aside, taking his wife on his knee and stroking her fair head, as it
rested on his breast with a tender and gentle hand.
“Sweet wife, am I not better to thee than ten sons? If it be God’s will
that we should never see a child grow up, to be our pride and joy, let
us recall how many sons there are who are the curse and sorrow of their
parents’ lives, and at least be thankful we are spared such grief as
that would be to us.”
“I am ashamed to murmur while I have thee,” she whispered, “but do not
leave me here while thou art gone to Rome, with that huge obelisk. It
might be a year of absence, and I feel as if I could scarcely live
without thee.”
“Dear wife, if I carry out this mission with success, I may be
raised to a higher rank, and give thee many more of the luxuries and
adornments of life. But I feel I must have a mind entirely abstracted
from other matters, or I _may fail_, and then--!”
Cynthia sprang up, exclaiming--“Fail! nay, my presence shall assure
thy triumphant success. Let me only come to share thy danger and
difficulty, and I am content.”
The sadness and depression had passed away now, and Heraclitus looking
down into his wife’s eyes, saw in them an earnest of success.
“Be it so then, my sweet one--the galley shall be prepared for thee and
thy attendants. Make thy preparations, and we will go to Rome together!”
* * * * *
Like the faint memory of a dream the scene of her childhood came back
to Cynthia, as she presented herself, a few months later, with two of
her maidens at the door of the Vestals’ atrium. Thoughts of her father,
and of Claudius, of dear faithful Anna, to whose hand she clung on
that morning long ago, came thronging to her heart.
She remembered how, when her father and Anna led her to the room where
the Vestal Maxima lay dying, Claudius held back. The greatness of his
unselfish and unchanging love seemed to be clearer to her now than it
had ever been before--the love which was divine in its character, the
love which forgot everything but the good of the one beloved, seemed to
present itself to the fair wife of Heraclitus, as she stood at the gate
of the Vestals’ House.
It was yet early, and there seemed to be no one stirring. The big heavy
door was closed, and the faint tap which Cynthia’s little slender hand
made upon it was not answered.
“Nay, then, lady,” exclaimed one of her maidens, “you must rap harder
than that. What a dark and gloomy place,” she went on; “and yet you
say it is accounted an honour to be chosen a Vestal virgin. Forsooth!
I would account it an honour to be left out of such a choice. See how
the great Palace seems to tower over us, as if it might fall and crush
us as we stand. Except for the sky above, which we can only see by
straining our necks till they are like to break, I can hardly believe I
am in the same world as when I am in our own bright Alexandria.”
Cynthia scarcely heard, or heeded if she heard, the girl’s chatter; but
Portia, who was a sedate, middle-aged woman, said, “We cannot stand
here all day; you will be over-fatigued before you enter this dark
place, which looks like a prison.” And Portia knocked with such good
will at the door that the sound of footsteps within was heard, and the
Vestal in charge of the outer gate or door threw it open.
The Vestal was young, and answered Cynthia’s inquiries carelessly and
indifferently.
“I crave permission to examine the statues of the Vestales Maximæ,” she
said.
“You can enter, if you choose,” was the reply; “the statues are all in
the atrium.”
Cynthia felt chilled by her reception; and after the brilliant light of
the early day out of doors, the atrium seemed so dark and gloomy.
But she passed on, and began to examine the statues.
There were three or four statues of the same Vestal Maxima, Flavia
Publicia, and her praises were on every side. Cynthia wandered about
the atrium, trying to decipher the names.
“Terentia Rufilla!” Cynthia read. “Ah! she was my father’s kinswoman.
It was in her time that my aunt came hither. Cornelia Maxima! Campia
Severina! Severina! Can this be the one I seek? Ah, no! for it is
Severina, not Severa, and the year is 240; besides, why Campia?”
After a long, fruitless search, Cynthia turned to the Vestal who was
following her--
“May it please you to conduct me to the presence of the Vestal Maxima.
I have a question to ask her.”
The Vestal hesitated.
“Nay, I do not know whether I may disturb her. She is in her own
apartment.”
“Say that the wife of Heraclitus, who is charged with the safe transit
of the great obelisk from Alexandria, by the will of the Emperor, seeks
information regarding one of the statues.”
The Vestal shook her head, and, turning to a severe-looking old Vestal
who was passing, seemed to refer the matter to her for decision.
“Nay, surely, the Lady Maxima must not be disturbed. She has been
watching all night, and is resting. Who seeks her?”
“That lady, with two attendants. She says she is the wife of a great
personage.”
Then Cynthia, with her sweet voice, accosted the tall, severe-looking
Vestal, saying, “May it please you to tell me if I can find the statue
of Hyacintha Severa, one of the Vestales Maximæ?”
The dark eyes of the Vestal looked down on the slight form of Cynthia
with a penetrating glance; and, struck with awe, Cynthia hastened to
say:--
“The Vestal Maxima was my father’s sister. I came hither with him when
a little child, of which I have a dim memory; but my aunt was held
in great honour, and love and reverence, by my father and by good
Claudius, our friend, and I wish to see her statue.”
“Methinks,” said the Vestal, grimly enough, “thou art altogether
dreaming. There is one Campia Severina here, but I know of no Severa
whose name is recorded on the pedestals: but,” with a stately bow,
“you are free to search; the statues are all collected here. There are
duplicates of many, but I do not know the name of which you speak.”
Then the Vestal disappeared, and Cynthia, disappointed and sad,
continued her search.
At last one of her ladies exclaimed:--
“Here is a beautiful statue, with no name; only a number--
“No. XIII.”
Cynthia gazed up at the statue for a few moments intensely and lovingly.
“I think that must be my aunt Hyacintha,” she said; “but oh! how dull
and dismal it is here; no sunshine, no warmth. Come, let us depart; it
makes me sad to stay.”
The ladies obeyed her not unwillingly. Rome might be grand, and had
its ancient temples and noble statues, and its yellow, slowly-rolling
Tiber; but life was sweeter and brighter far in sunny Alexandria, where
the waves of the blue Mediterranean danced and sparkled, and the air
and light of heaven were free to come and go.
As they ascended from the House of the Vestals, and climbed the Cælian
Hill, Cynthia spoke for the first time.
The prospect before them was the same over which Hyacintha Severa had
so often looked, as child, and fair maiden, and mature woman.
“I can think of my aunt better here,” Cynthia said, “the beautiful and
the good. I feel her nearer me here than in that dark, gloomy hall; the
statue beneath which is only written, ‘No. XIII,’ may be her likeness,
but I love to think of her as Claudius told me always to think of
her--passed from the darkness of earth into the Light of God, wearing
the Crown of Light, after bearing the Cross of suffering. All earthly
things fade and vanish, but that Crown fadeth not away. Ah! I am glad I
am a Christian!”
And now the shadow of the Great Past closes over those whose lives,
or rather the fragments of whose lives, we have followed through long
years in this little story. The silence which throws its mantle like a
veil over the ruins of the temple and the atrium of the Vestals cannot
be broken.
* * * * *
The statues of the Vestales Maximæ stand like voiceless messengers from
that time of darkness--a darkness which was, as we know, the darkness
before the dawn. In the old Rome, which is so continually brought to
the surface from the covering dust of centuries, there can scarcely be
a figure round which so much interest might be supposed to gather as
round the nameless statue of the Vestal, whose story imagination may
supply in many colours and in many forms--each one, for himself, as
he stands before it, may clothe it as he will. But that of the noble,
earnest soul struggling towards the Light, and rising from the dry
chrysalis of a worn-out faith to the flight of the unimprisoned spirit
upward to God--who is the Light--has seemed as full of probability as
of charm. And it is easy to believe that a woman like Cœlia Concordia,
herself unable to soar and yet conscious that her aims were after all
but earthly and sordid, might grudge one of the most beloved and most
highly gifted of the priestesses the unsparing meed of praise which
the inscription commemorates. Yet, she might have reflected, if the
inscription remained without a name the identity of Hyacintha would
never be discovered, and thus the once-honoured and beloved Vestal
would be known henceforth only as
NUMBER THIRTEEN.
THE END.
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The Caracalla was a long garment like the habit of a modern monk,
sometimes with, sometimes without, a hood or cowl.
[B] Although there is no record extant of the Jews settling in Britain
till some centuries later than this time, still it is probable that a
few scattered merchants of the despised people may have come over with
some of the Roman nobility--performing menial offices, and conducting
barters with the native Britons for their Roman masters.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.