THE EDICT.
The day being at length arrived for its publication in Rome, Corvinus
fully felt the importance of the commission intrusted to him, of
affixing in its proper place in the Forum, the edict of extermination
against the Christians, or rather the sentence of extirpation of their
very name. News had been received from Nicodemia, that a brave Christian
soldier, named George, had torn down a similar imperial degree, and had
manfully suffered death for his boldness. Corvinus was determined that
nothing of the sort should happen in Rome; for he feared too seriously
the consequences of such an occurrence to himself; he therefore took
every precaution in his power. The edict had been written in large
characters, upon sheets of parchment joined together; and these were
nailed to a board, firmly supported by a pillar, against which it was
hung, not far from the Puteal Libonis, the magistrate’s chair in the
Forum. This, however, was not done till the Forum was deserted, and
night had well set in. It was thus intended that the edict should meet
the eyes of the citizens early in the morning, and strike their minds
with more tremendous effect.
To prevent the possibility of any nocturnal attempt to destroy the
precious document, Corvinus, with much the same cunning precaution as
was taken by the Jewish priests to prevent the Resurrection, obtained
for a night-guard to the Forum, a company of the Pannonian cohort, a
body composed of soldiers belonging to the fiercest races of the North,
Dacians, Pannonians, Sarmatians, and Germans, whose uncouth features,
savage aspect, matted sandy hair, and bushy red moustaches, made them
appear absolutely ferocious to Roman eyes. These men could scarcely
speak Latin, but were ruled by officers of their own countries, and
formed, in the decline of the empire, the most faithful body-guard of
the reigning tyrants, often their fellow-countrymen; for there was no
excess too monstrous for them to commit, if duly commanded to execute
it.
A number of these savages, ever rough and ready, were distributed so as
to guard every avenue of the Forum, with strict orders to pierce
through, or hew down, any one who should attempt to pass without the
watchword, or _symbolum_. This was every night distributed by the
general in command, through his tribunes and centurions, to all the
troops. But to prevent all possibility of any Christian making use of it
that night, if he should chance to discover it, the cunning Corvinus had
one chosen which he felt sure no Christian would use. It was NUMEN
IMPERATORUM: the “Divinity of the Emperors.”
The last thing which he did was to make his rounds, giving to each
sentinel the strictest injunctions; and most minutely to the one whom he
had placed close to the edict. This man had been chosen for his post on
account of his rude strength and huge bulk, and the peculiar ferocity of
his looks and character. Corvinus gave him the most rigid instructions,
how he was to spare nobody, but to prevent any one’s interference with
the sacred edict. He repeated to him again and again the watchword; and
left him, already half-stupid with _sabaia_ or beer,[139] in the merest
animal consciousness, that it was his business, not an unpleasant one,
to spear, or sabre, some one or other before morning. The night was raw
and gusty, with occasional sharp and slanting showers; and the Dacian
wrapped himself in his cloak, and walked up and down, occasionally
taking a long pull at a flask concealed about him, containing a liquor
said to be distilled from the wild cherries of the Thuringian forests;
and in the intervals muddily meditating, not on the wood or river, by
which his young barbarians were at play, but how soon it would be time
to cut the present emperor’s throat, and sack the city.
While all this was going on, old Diogenes and his hearty sons were in
their poor house in the Suburra, not far off, making preparations for
their frugal meal. They were interrupted by a gentle tap at the door,
followed by the lifting of the latch, and the entrance of two young men,
whom Diogenes at once recognized and welcomed.
“Come in, my noble young masters; how good of you thus to honor my poor
dwelling! I hardly dare offer you our plain fare; but if you will
partake of it, you will indeed give us a Christian love-feast.”
“Thank you most kindly, father Diogenes,” answered the elder of the two,
Quadratus, Sebastian’s sinewy centurion: “Pancratius and I have come
expressly to sup with you. But not as yet; we have some business in this
part of the town, and after it we shall be glad to eat something. In the
meantime one of your youths can go out and cater for us. Come, we must
have something good; and I want you to cheer yourself with a moderate
cup of generous wine.”
Saying this he gave his purse to one of the sons, with instructions to
bring home some better provisions than he knew the simple family usually
enjoyed. They sat down; and Pancratius, by way of saying something,
addressed the old man. “Good Diogenes, I have heard Sebastian say that
you remember seeing the glorious Deacon Laurentius die for Christ. Tell
me something about him.”
“With pleasure,” answered the old man. “It is now nearly forty-five
years since it happened,[140] and as I was older then than you are now,
you may suppose I remember all quite distinctly. He was indeed a
beautiful youth to look at: so mild and sweet, so fair and graceful; and
his speech was so gentle, so soft, especially when speaking to the poor.
How they all loved him! I followed him everywhere; I stood by as the
venerable Pontiff Sixtus was going to death, and Laurentius met him, and
so tenderly reproached him, just as a son might a father, for not
allowing him to be his companion in the sacrifice of himself, as he had
ministered to him in the sacrifice of our Lord’s body and blood.”
“Those were splendid times, Diogenes, were they not?” interrupted the
youth; “how degenerate we are now! What a different race! Are we not,
Quadratus?”
The rough soldier smiled at the generous sincerity of his complaint, and
bid Diogenes go on.
“I saw him too as he distributed the rich plate of the Church to the
poor. We have never had any thing so splendid since. There were golden
lamps and candlesticks, censors, chalices, and patens,[141] besides an
immense quantity of silver melted down, and distributed to the blind,
the lame, and the indigent.”
“But tell me,” asked Pancratius, “how did he endure his last dreadful
torment? It must have been frightful.”
“I saw it all,” answered the old fossor, “and it would have been
intolerably frightful in another. He had been first placed on the rack,
and variously tormented, and he had not uttered a groan; when the judge
ordered that horrid bed, or gridiron, to be prepared and heated. To look
at his tender flesh blistering and breaking over the fire, and deeply
scored with red burning gashes that cut to the bone where the iron bars
went across; to see the steam, thick as from a cauldron, rise from his
body, and hear the fire hiss beneath him, as he melted away into it; and
every now and then to observe the tremulous quivering that crept over
the surface of his skin, the living motion which the agony gave to each
separate muscle, and the sharp spasmodic twitches which convulsed, and
gradually contracted, his limbs; all this, I own, was the most harrowing
spectacle I have ever beheld in all my life. But to look into his
countenance was to forget all this. His head was raised up from the
burning body, and stretched out, as if fixed on the contemplation of
some most celestial vision, like that of his fellow-deacon Stephen. His
face glowed indeed with the heat below, and the perspiration flowed down
it; but the light from the fire shining upwards, and passing through his
golden locks, created a glory round his beautiful head and countenance,
which made him look as if already in heaven. And every feature, serene
and sweet as ever, was so impressed with an eager, longing look,
accompanying the upward glancing of his eye, that you would willingly
have changed places with him.”
“That I would,” again broke in Pancratius, “and, as soon as God pleases!
I dare not think that I could stand what he did; for he was indeed a
noble and heroic Levite, while I am only a weak imperfect boy. But do
you not think, dear Quadratus, that strength is given in that hour,
proportionate to our trials, whatever they may be? You, I know, would
stand any thing; for you are a fine stout soldier, accustomed to toil
and wounds. But as for me, I have only a willing heart to give. Is that
enough, think you?”
“Quite, quite, my dear boy,” exclaimed the centurion, full of emotion,
and looking tenderly on the youth, who with glistening eyes, having
risen from his seat, had placed his hands upon the officer’s shoulders.
“God will give you strength, as He has already given you courage. But we
must not forget our night’s work. Wrap yourself well up in your cloak,
and bring your toga quite over your head; so! It is a wet and bitter
night. Now, good Diogenes, put more wood on the fire, and let us find
supper ready on our return. We shall not be long absent; and just leave
the door ajar.”
“Go, go, my sons,” said the old man, “and God speed you! whatever you
are about, I am sure it is something praiseworthy.”
Quadratus sturdily drew his chlamys, or military cloak, around him, and
the two youths plunged into the dark lanes of the Suburra, and took the
direction of the Forum. While they were absent, the door was opened,
with the well-known salutation of “thanks to God;” and Sebastian
entered, and inquired anxiously if Diogenes had seen any thing of the
two young men; for he had got a hint of what they were going to do. He
was told they were expected in a few moments.
A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed, when hasty steps were heard
approaching; the door was pushed open, and was as quickly shut, and then
fast barred, behind Quadratus and Pancratius.
“Here it is,” said the latter, producing, with a hearty laugh, a bundle
of crumpled parchment.
“What?” asked all eagerly.
“Why, the grand decree, of course,” answered Pancratius, with boyish
glee; “look here, ‘DOMINI NOSTRI DIOCLETIANUS ET MAXIMIANUS, INVICTI,
SENIORES AUGUSTI, PATRES IMPERATORUM ET CÆSARUM,’[142] and so forth.
Here it goes!” And he thrust it into the blazing fire, while the
stalwart sons of Diogenes threw
[Illustration: “Here it goes!” And he thrust it into the blazing
fire.]
a faggot over it to keep it down, and drown its crackling. There it
frizzled, and writhed, and cracked, and shrunk, first one letter or word
coming up, then another; first an emperor’s praise, and then an
anti-Christian blasphemy; till all had subsided into a black ashy mass.
And what else, or more, would those be in a few years who had issued
that proud document, when their corpses should have been burnt on a pile
of cedar-wood and spices, and their handful of ashes be scraped
together, hardly enough to fill a gilded urn? And what also, in very few
years more, would that heathenism be, which it was issued to keep alive,
but a dead letter at most, and as worthless a heap of extinguished
embers as lay on that hearth? And the very empire which these
“unconquered” Augusti were bolstering up by cruelty and injustice, how
in a few centuries would it resemble that annihilated decree? the
monuments of its grandeur lying in ashes, or in ruins, and proclaiming
that there is no true Lord but one stronger than Cæsars, the Lord of
lords; and that neither counsel nor strength of man shall prevail
against Him.
Something like this did Sebastian think, perhaps, as he gazed
abstractedly on the expiring embers of the pompous and cruel edict which
they had torn down, not for a wanton frolic, but because it contained
blasphemies against God and His holiest truths. They knew that if they
should be discovered, tenfold tortures would be their lot; but
Christians in those days, when they contemplated and prepared for
martyrdom, made no calculation on that head. Death for Christ, whether
quick and easy, or lingering and painful, was the end for which they
looked; and, like brave soldiers going to battle, they did not speculate
where a shaft or a sword might strike them, whether a death-blow would
at once stun them out of existence, or they should have to writhe for
hours upon the ground, mutilated or pierced, to die by inches among the
heaps of unheeded slain.
Sebastian soon recovered, and had hardly the heart to reprove the
perpetrators of this deed. In truth, it had its ridiculous side, and he
was inclined to laugh at the morrow’s dismay. This view he gladly took,
for he saw Pancratius watched his looks with some trepidation, and his
centurion looked a little disconcerted. So, after a hearty laugh, they
sat down cheerfully to their meal; for it was not midnight, and the hour
for commencing the fast, preparatory to receiving the holy Eucharist,
was not arrived. Quadratus’s object, besides kindness, in this
arrangement, was partly, that if surprised, a reason for their being
there might be apparent, partly to keep up the spirits of his younger
companion and of Diogenes’s household, if alarmed at the bold deed just
performed. But there was no appearance of any such feeling. The
conversation soon turned upon recollections of Diogenes’s youth, and the
good old fervent times, as Pancratius would persist in calling them.
Sebastian saw his friend home, and then took a round, to avoid the Forum
in seeking his own abode. If any one had seen Pancratius that night,
when alone in his chamber preparing to retire to rest, he would have
seen him every now and then almost laughing at some strange but pleasant
adventure.
[Illustration: A Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs.]