THE WOLF IN THE FOLD.
After the adventures of the night, our youths had not much time for
rest. Long before daybreak the Christians had to be up, and assemble at
their several titles, so as to disperse before day. It was to be their
last meeting there. The oratories were to be closed, and divine worship
had to begin, from that day, in the subterranean churches of the
cemeteries. It could not, indeed, be expected that all would be able to
travel with safety, even on the Sunday, some miles beyond the gate.[145]
A great privilege was, consequently, granted to the faithful, at such
times of trouble, that of preserving the blessed Eucharist in their
houses, and communicating themselves privately in the morning, “before
taking other food,” as Tertullian expresses it.[146]
The faithful felt, not as sheep going to the slaughter, not as criminals
preparing for execution, but as soldiers arming for fight. Their
weapons, their food, their strength, their courage, were all to be found
in their Lord’s table. Even the lukewarm and the timid gathered fresh
spirit from the bread of life. In churches, as yet may be seen in the
cemeteries, were chairs placed for the penitentiaries, before whom the
sinner knelt, and confessed his sins, and received absolution. In
moments like this the penitential code was relaxed, and the terms of
public expiation shortened; and the whole night had been occupied by the
zealous clergy in preparing their flocks for, to many, their last public
communion on earth.
We need not remind our readers that the office then performed was
essentially, and in many details, the same as they daily witness at the
Catholic altar. Not only was it considered, as now, to be the Sacrifice
of Our Lord’s Body and Blood, not only were the oblation, the
consecration, the communion alike, but many of the prayers were
identical; so that the Catholic hearing them recited, and still more the
priest reciting them, in the same language as the Roman Church of the
Catacombs spoke, may feel himself in active and living communion with
the martyrs who celebrated, and the martyrs who assisted at, those
sublime mysteries.
On the occasion which we are describing, when the time came for giving
the kiss of peace--a genuine embrace of brotherly love--sobs could be
heard and bursts of tears; for it was to many a parting salutation. Many
a youth clung to his father’s neck, scarcely knowing whether that day
might not sever them, till they waved their palm-branches together in
heaven. And how would mothers press their daughters to their bosom, in
the fervor of that new love which fear of long separation enkindled!
Then came the communion, more solemn than usual, more devout, more
hushed to stillness. “The Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” said the
priest to each, as he offered him the sacred food. “Amen,” replied the
receiver, with thrilling accents of faith and love. Then extending in
his hand an _orarium_, or white linen cloth, he received in it a
provision of the Bread of Life, sufficient to last him till some future
feast. This was most carefully and
[Illustration: The Blessed Eucharist, in the Early Ages of the
Church.]
reverently folded, and laid in the bosom, wrapped up often in another
and more precious covering, or even placed in a gold locket.[147] It was
now that, for the first time, poor Syra regretted the loss of her rich
embroidered scarf, which would long before have been given to the poor,
had she not studiously reserved it for such an occasion, and such a use.
Nor had her mistress been able to prevail upon her to accept any objects
of value, without a stipulation that she might dispose of them as she
liked, that was in charitable gifts.
The various assemblies had broken up before the discovery of the
violated edict. But they may rather be said to have adjourned to the
cemeteries. The frequent meetings of Torquatus with his two heathen
confederates in the baths of Caracalla had been narrowly watched by the
capsarius and his wife, as we have already remarked; and Victoria had
overheard the plot to make an inroad into the cemetery of Callistus on
the day after publication. The Christians, therefore, considered
themselves safer the first day, and took advantage of the circumstance
to inaugurate, by solemn offices, the churches of the catacombs, which,
after some years’ disuse, had been put into good repair and order by the
_fossores_, had been in some places repainted, and furnished with all
requisites for divine worship.
But Corvinus, after getting over his first dismay, and having as
speedily as possible another, though not so grand, a copy of the edict
affixed, began better to see the dismal probabilities of serious
consequences from the wrath of his imperial master. The Dacian was
right: _he_ would have to answer for the loss. He felt it necessary to
do something that very day, which might wipe off the disgrace he had
incurred, before again meeting the emperor’s look. He determined to
anticipate the attack on the cemetery, intended for the following day.
He repaired, therefore, while it was still early, to the baths, where
Fulvius, ever jealously watchful over Torquatus, kept him in expectation
of Corvinus’s coming to hold council with them. The worthy trio
concerted their plans. Corvinus, guided by the reluctant apostate, at
the head of a chosen band of soldiers who were at his disposal, had to
make an incursion into the cemetery of Callistus, and drive, or drag,
thence the clergy and principal Christians; while Fulvius, remaining
outside with another company, would intercept them and cut off all
retreat, securing the most important prizes, and especially the Pontiff
and superior clergy, whom his visit to the ordination would enable him
to recognize. This was his plan. “Let fools,” he said to himself, “act
the part of ferrets in the warren; I will be the sportsman outside.”
In the meantime Victoria overheard sufficient to make her very busy
dusting and cleaning, in the retired room where they were consulting,
without appearing to listen. She told all to Cucumio; and he, after much
scratching of his head, hit upon a notable plan for conveying the
discovered information to the proper quarter.
Sebastian, after his early attendance on divine worship, unable, from
his duties at the palace to do more, had proceeded, according to almost
universal custom, to the baths, to invigorate his limbs by their healthy
refreshment, and also to remove from himself the suspicion, which his
absence on that morning might have excited. While he was thus engaged,
the old _capsararius_, as he had had himself rattlingly called in his
ante-posthumous inscription, wrote on a slip of parchment all that his
wife had heard about the intention of an immediate assault, and of
getting possession of the holy Pontiff’s person. This he fastened with a
pin or needle to the inside of Sebastian’s tunic, of which he had
charge, as he durst not speak to him in the presence of others.
The officer, after his bath, went into the hall where the events of the
morning were being discussed, and where Fulvius was waiting, till
Corvinus should tell him that all was ready. Upon going out, disgusted,
he felt himself, as he walked, pricked by something on his chest: he
examined his garments, and found the paper. It was written in about as
elegant a latinity as Cucumio’s epitaph, but he made it out sufficiently
to consider it necessary for him to turn his steps towards the Via
Appia, instead of the Palatine, and convey the important information to
the Christians assembled in the cemetery.
Having, however, found a fleeter and surer messenger than himself, in
the poor blind girl, who would not attract the same attention, he
stopped her, gave her the note, after adding a few words to it, with the
pen and ink which he carried, and bade her bear it, as speedily as
possible, to its destination. But, in fact, he had hardly left the
baths, when Fulvius received information that Corvinus and his troop
were by that time hastening across the fields, so as to avoid suspicion,
towards the appointed spot. He mounted his horse immediately, and went
along the high-road; while the Christian soldier, in a by-way, was
instructing his blind messenger.
When we accompanied Diogenes and his party through the catacombs, we
stopped short of the subterranean church, because Severus would not let
it be betrayed to Torquatus. In this the Christian congregation was now
assembled, under its chief pastor. It was constructed on the principle
common to all such excavations, for we can hardly call them edifices.
The reader may imagine two of the _cubicula_ or chambers, which we have
before described, placed one on each side of a gallery or passage, so
that their doors, or rather wide entrances, are opposite one another. At
the end of one will be found an _arcosolium_ or altar-tomb: and the
probable conjecture is, that in this division the men, under charge of
the _ostiarii_,[148] and in the other the women, under the care of the
deaconesses, were assembled. This division of the sexes at divine
worship was a matter of jealous discipline in the early Church.
[Illustration: Ruins of the basilica of St. Alexander, on the Nomentan
Way. From Roller’s “Catacombes de Rome.”]
Often these subterranean churches were not devoid of architectural
decoration. The walls, especially near the altar, were plastered and
painted, and half columns, with their bases and capitals, not
ungracefully cut out of the sandstone, divided
[Illustration: Confirmation, in the Early Ages of the Church.]
the different parts or ornamented the entrances. In one instance, indeed
in the chief basilica yet discovered in the cemetery of Callistus, there
is a chamber without any altar, communicating with the church by means
of a funnel-shaped opening, piercing the earthen wall, here some twelve
feet thick, and entering the chamber, which is at a lower level, at the
height of five or six feet, in a slanting direction; so that all that
was spoken in the church could be heard, yet nothing that was done there
could be seen, by those assembled in the chamber. This is very naturally
supposed to have been the place reserved for the class of public
penitents called _audientes_ or hearers, and for the catechumens, not
yet initiated by baptism.
[Illustration: PLAN OF SUBTERRANEAN CHURCH IN THE CEMETERY OF ST. AGNES.
A. Choir, or chancel, with episcopal chair (_a_) and benches for the
clergy (_b b_).
B. Division for the men, separated from the choir by two pillars,
supporting an arch.
C. Corridor of the catacomb, affording entrance to the church.
D. Division for the women, with a tomb in it.
Each portion is subdivided by projections in the wall.]
The basilica, in which the Christians were assembled, when Sebastian
sent his message, was like the one discovered in the cemetery of St.
Agnes. Each of the two divisions was double, that is, consisted of two
large chambers, slightly separated by half-columns, in what we may call
the women’s church, and by flat pilasters in the men’s, one of these
surfaces having in it a small niche for an image or lamp. But the most
remarkable feature of this basilica is a further prolongation of the
structure, so as to give it a chancel or presbytery. This is about the
size of half each other division, from which it is separated by two
columns against the wall, as well as by its lesser height, after the
manner of modern chancels. For while each portion of each division has
first a lofty-arched tomb in its wall, and four or five tiers of graves
above it, the elevation of the chancel is not much greater than that of
those _arcosolia_ or altar-tombs. At the end of the chancel, against the
middle of the wall, is a chair with back and arms cut out of the solid
stone, and from each side proceeds a stone bench, which thus occupies
the end and two sides of the chancel. As the table of the arched-tomb
behind the chair is higher than the back of the throne, and as this is
immovable, it is clear that the divine mysteries could not have been
celebrated upon it. A portable altar must, therefore, have been placed
before the throne, in an isolated position in the middle of the
sanctuary: and this, tradition tell us, was the wooden altar of St.
Peter.
[Illustration: A _Cathedra_ or Episcopal Chair in the Catacomb of Saint
Agnes.]
We have thus the exact arrangements to be found in the churches built
after the peace, and yet to be seen in all the ancient basilicas in
Rome--the episcopal chair in the centre of the apse, the presbytery or
seat for the clergy on either hand, and the altar between the throne and
the people. The early Christians thus anticipated underground, or rather
gave the principles which directed, the forms of ecclesiastical
architecture.
It was in such a basilica, then, that we are to imagine the faithful
assembled, when Corvinus and his satellites arrived at the entrance of
the cemetery. This was the way which Torquatus knew, leading down by
steps from a half-ruinous building, choked up with faggots. They found
the coast clear, and immediately made their arrangements. Fulvius, with
one body of ten or twelve men, lurked to guard the entrance, and seize
all who attempted to come out or go in. Corvinus, with Torquatus and a
smaller body of eight, prepared to descend.
“I don’t like this underground work,” said an old, grey-bearded
legionary. “I am a soldier, and not a rat-catcher. Bring me my man into
the light of day, and I will fight him hand to hand, and foot to foot;
but I have no love for being stifled or poisoned, like vermin in a
drain.”
This speech found favor with the soldiers. One said, “There may be
hundreds of these skulking Christians down there, and we are little more
than half a dozen.”
“This is not the sort of work we receive our pay for,” added another.
“It’s their sorceries I care for,” continued a third, “and not their
valor.”
It required all the eloquence of Fulvius to screw up their resolution.
He assured them there was nothing to fear; that the cowardly Christians
would run before them like hares, and that they would find more gold and
silver in the church than a year’s pay would give them. Thus encouraged,
they went groping down to the bottom of the stairs. They could
distinguish lamps at intervals, stretching into the gloomy length before
them.
“Hush!” said one, “listen to that voice!”
[Illustration: An Altar with its Episcopal Chair, in the Cemetery of
Saint Agnes.]
From far away its accents came, softened by distance, but they were the
notes of a fresh youthful voice, that quailed not with fear; so clear,
that the very words could be caught, as it intoned the following verses:
“Dominus illuminatio mea, et salus mea; quem timebo?
[Illustration: An Attack in the Catacombs.]
“Dominus protector vitæ meæ; a quo trepidabo?”[149]
Then came a full chorus of voices, singing, like the sound of many
waters:
“Dum appropriant super me nocentes, ut edant carnes meas; qui tribulant
me, inimici mei, ipsi infirmati sunt et ceciderunt.”[150]
A mixture of shame and anger seized on the assailants as they heard
these words of calm confidence and defiance. The single voice again sang
forth, but in apparently fainter accents:
“Si consistant adversum me castra, non timebit cor meum.”[151]
“I thought I knew that voice,” muttered Corvinus. “I ought to know it
out of a thousand. It is that of my bane, the cause of all last night’s
curse and this day’s trouble. It is that of Pancratius, who pulled down
the edict. On, on, my men; any reward for him, dead or alive!”
“But, stop,” said one, “let us light our torches.”
“Hark!” said a second, while they were engaged in this operation; “what
is that strange noise, as if of scratching and hammering at a distance?
I have heard it for some time.”
“And, look!” added a third; “the distant lights have disappeared, and
the music has ceased. We are certainly discovered.”
“No danger,” said Torquatus, putting on a boldness which he did not
feel. “That noise only comes from those old moles, Diogenes and his
sons, busy preparing graves for the Christians we shall seize.”
[Illustration: An Altar in the Cemetery of St. Sixtus.]
Torquatus had in vain advised the troop not to bring torches, but to
provide themselves with such lamps as we see Diogenes represented
carrying, in his picture, or waxen tapers, which he had brought for
himself; but the men swore they would not go down without plenty of
light, and such means for it as could not be put out by a draught of
wind, or a stroke on the arm. The effects were soon obvious. As they
advanced, silently and cautiously, along the low narrow gallery, the
resinous torches crackled and hissed with a fierce glare, which heated
and annoyed them; while a volume of thick pitchy smoke from each rolled
downwards on to the bearers from the roof, half stifled them, and made a
dense atmosphere of cloud around themselves, which effectually dimmed
their light. Torquatus kept at the head of the party, counting every
turning right and left, as he had noted them; though he found every
mark which he had made carefully removed. He was staggered and baulked,
when, after having counted little more than half the proper number, he
found the road completely blocked up.
The fact was, that keener eyes than he was aware of had been on the
look-out. Severus had never relaxed his watchfulness, determined not to
be surprised. He was near the entrance to the cemetery below, when the
soldiers reached it above; and he ran forward at once to the place where
the sand had been prepared for closing the road; near which his brother
and several other stout workmen were stationed, in case of danger. In a
moment, with that silence and rapidity to which they were trained, they
set to work lustily, shovelling the sand across the narrow and low
corridor from each side, while well-directed blows of the pick brought
from the low roof behind, huge flakes of sandstone, which closed up the
opening. Behind this barrier they stood, hardly suppressing a laugh as
they heard their enemies through its loose separation. Their work it was
which had been heard, and which had screened off the lights, and
deadened the song.
Torquatus’s perplexity was not diminished by the volley of oaths and
imprecations, and the threats of violence which were showered upon him,
for a fool or a traitor. “Stay one moment, I entreat you,” he said. “It
is possible I have mistaken my reckoning. I know the right turn by a
remarkable tomb a few yards within it; I will just step into one or two
of the last corridors, and see.”
With these words, he ran back to the next gallery on the left, advanced
a few paces, and totally disappeared.
Though his companions had followed him to the very mouth of the gallery,
they could not see how this happened. It appeared like witchcraft, in
which they were quite ready to believe. His light and himself seemed to
have vanished at once. “We will have no more of this work,” they said;
“either Torquatus is a traitor, or he has been carried off by magic.”
Worried, heated in the close atmosphere, almost inflamed by their
lights, begrimed, blinded, and choked by the pitchy smoke, crest-fallen
and disheartened, they turned back; and since their road led straight to
the entrance, they flung away their blazing torches into the side
galleries, one here and one there, as they passed by, to get rid of
them. When they looked back, it seemed as if a triumphal illumination
was kindling up the very atmosphere of the gloomy corridor. From the
mouths of the various caverns came forth a fiery light which turned the
dull sandstone into a bright crimson; while the volumes of smoke above,
hung like amber clouds along the whole gallery. The sealed tombs,
receiving the unusual reflection on their yellow tiles, or marble slabs,
appeared covered with golden or silver plates, set in the red damask of
the walls. It looked like a homage paid to martyrdom, by the very furies
of heathenism, on the first day of persecution. The torches which they
had kindled to destroy, only served to shed brightness on monuments of
that virtue which had never failed to save the Church.
But before these foiled hounds with drooping heads had reached the
entrance, they recoiled before the sight of a singular apparition. At
first they thought they had caught a glimpse of daylight; but they soon
perceived it was the glimmering of a lamp. This was held steadily by an
upright, immovable figure, which thus received its light upon itself. It
was clothed in a dark dress, so as to resemble one of those bronze
statues, which have the head and extremities of white marble, and
startle one, when first seen; so like are they to living forms.
“Who can it be? What is it?” the men whispered to one another.
“A sorceress,” replied one.
“The _genius loci_,”[152] observed another.
“A spirit,” suggested a third.
Still, as they approached stealthily towards it, it did not appear
conscious of their presence: “there was no speculation in its eyes;” it
remained unmoved and unscared. At length, two got sufficiently near to
seize the figure by its arms.
“Who are you?” asked Corvinus, in a rage.
“A Christian,” answered Cæcilia, with her usual cheerful gentleness.
[Illustration: The Cure of the Man born Blind, from a picture in the
Catacombs.]
“Bring her along,” he commanded; “some one at least shall pay for our
disappointment.”