RETRIBUTION.
The prefect of the city went to give his report on the untoward events
of the day, and do what was possible to screen his worthless son. He
found the emperor in the worst of moods. Had Corvinus come in his way
early in the day, nobody could have answered for his head. And now the
result of the inroad into the cemetery had revived his anger, when
Tertullus entered into the audience-chamber. Sebastian contrived to be
on guard.
“Where is your booby of a son?” was the first salutation which the
prefect received.
“Humbly waiting your divinity’s pleasure outside, and anxious to
propitiate your godlike anger, for the tricks which fortune has played
upon his zeal.”
“Fortune!” exclaimed the tyrant; “fortune indeed! His own stupidity and
cowardice: a pretty beginning, forsooth; but he shall smart for it.
Bring him in.”
The wretch, whining and trembling, was introduced; and cast himself at
the emperor’s feet, from which he was spurned, and sent rolling, like a
lashed hound, into the midst of the hall. This set the imperial divinity
a-laughing, and helped to mollify its wrath.
“Come, sirrah! stand up,” he said, “and let me hear an account of
yourself. How did the edict disappear?”
Corvinus told a rambling tale, which occasionally amused the emperor;
for he was rather taken with the trick. This was a good symptom.
“Well,” he said at last, “I will be merciful to you. Lictors, bind your
fasces.” They drew their axes forth, and felt their edges. Corvinus
again threw himself down, and exclaimed:
“Spare my life; I have important information to furnish, if I live.”
“Who wants your worthless life?” responded the gentle Maximian.
“Lictors, put aside your axes; the rods are good enough for him.”
In a moment his hands were seized and bound, his tunic was stripped off
his shoulders, and a shower of blows fell upon them, delivered with
well-regulated skill, till he roared and writhed, to the great enjoyment
of his imperial master.
Smarting and humbled, he had to stand again before him.
“Now, sir,” said the latter, “what is the wonderful information you have
to give?”
“That I know who perpetrated the outrage of last night, on your imperial
edict.”
“Who was it?”
“A youth named Pancratius, whose knife I found under where the edict had
been cut away.”
“And why have you not seized him and brought him to justice?”
“Twice this day he has been almost within my grasp, for I have heard his
voice; but he has escaped me.”
“Then let him not escape a third time, or you may have to take his
place. But how do you know him, or his knife?”
“He was my school-fellow at the school of Cassianus, who turned out to
be a Christian.”
“A Christian presume to teach my subjects, to make them enemies of their
country, disloyal to their sovereigns, and contemners of the gods! I
suppose it was he who taught that young viper Pancratius to pull down
our imperial edict. Do you know where he is?”
“Yes, sire; Torquatus, who has abandoned the Christian superstition, has
told me.”
“And pray who is this Torquatus?”
“He is one who has been staying some time with Chromatius and a party of
Christians in the country.”
“Why, this is worse and worse. Is the ex-prefect then, too, become a
Christian?”
“Yes, and lives with many others of that sect in Campania.”
“What perfidy! what treachery! I shall not know whom to trust next.
Prefect, send some one immediately to arrest all these men, and the
school-master, and Torquatus.”
“He is no longer a Christian,” interposed the judge.
“Well, what do I care?” replied the emperor peevishly; “arrest as many
as you can, and spare no one, and make them smart well; do you
understand me? Now begone, all; it is time for my supper.”
Corvinus went home; and, in spite of medicinal applications, was
feverish, sore, and spiteful all night; and next morning begged his
father to let him go on the expedition into Campania, that so he might
retrieve his honor, gratify his revenge, and escape the disgrace and
sarcasm that was sure to be heaped on him by Roman society.
When Fulvius had deposited his prisoner at the tribunal, he hastened
home to recount his adventures, as usual, to Eurotas. The old man
listened with imperturbable sternness to the barren recital, and at last
said, coldly:
“Very little profit from all this, Fulvius.”
“No immediate profit, indeed; but a good prospect in view, at least.”
“How so?”
“Why, the Lady Agnes is in my power. I have made sure, at last, that
she is a Christian. I can now necessarily either win her or destroy her.
In either case her property is mine.”
“Take the second alternative,” said the old man, with a keen glow in his
eye, but no change of face; “it is the shorter, and less troublesome,
way.”
“But my honor is engaged; I cannot allow myself to be spurned in the
manner I told you.”
“You _have_ been spurned, however; and that calls for vengeance. You
have no time to lose, remember, in foolery. Your funds are nearly
exhausted, and nothing is coming in. You _must_ strike a blow.”
“Surely, Eurotas, you would prefer my trying to get this wealth by
honorable,” (Eurotas smiled at the idea coming into either of their
minds) “rather than by foul, means.”
“Get it, get it any way, provided it be the surest and the speediest.
You know our compact. Either the family is restored to wealth and
splendor, or it ends in and with you. It shall never linger on in
disgrace, that is, in poverty.”
“I know, I know, without your every day reminding me of the bitter
condition,” said Fulvius, wringing his hands, and writhing in all his
body. “Give me time enough, and all will be well.”
“I give you time, till all is hopeless. Things do not look bright at
present. But, Fulvius, it is time that I tell you who I am.”
“Why, were you not my father’s faithful dependant, to whose care he
intrusted me?”
“I was your father’s elder brother, Fulvius, and am the head of the
family. I have had but one thought, but one aim in life, the restoring
of our house to that greatness and splendor, from which my father’s
negligence and prodigality had brought it down. Thinking that your
father, my brother, had greater ability than myself for this work, I
resigned my rights and gains to him upon certain terms; one of which
was your guardianship, and the exclusive forming of your mind. You know
how I have trained you, to care nothing about the means, so that our
great ends be carried.”
Fulvius, who had been riveted with amazement and deep attention on the
speaker, shrunk into himself with shame, at this baring of both their
hearts. The dark old man fixed his eyes more intently than ever, and
went on:
“You remember the black and complicated crime by which we concentrated
in your hands the divided remnant of family wealth.”
Fulvius covered his face with his hands and shuddered, then said
entreatingly, “Oh, spare me that, Eurotas; for heaven’s sake spare me!”
“Well, then,” resumed the other, unmoved as ever, “I will be brief.
Remember, nephew, that he who does not recoil from a brilliant future,
to be gained by guilt, must not shrink from a past that prepared it by
crime. For the future will one day be the past. Let our compact,
therefore, be straightforward and honest, for there is an honesty even
in sin. Nature has given you abundance of selfishness and cunning, and
she has given me boldness and remorselessness in directing and applying
them. Our lot is cast by the same throw,--we become rich, or die,
together.”
Fulvius, in his heart, cursed the day that he came to Rome, or bound
himself to his stern master, whose mysterious tie was so much stronger
than he had known before. But he felt himself spell-bound to him, and
powerless as the kid in the lion’s paws. He retired to his couch with a
heavier heart than ever; for a dark, impending fate never failed to
weigh upon his soul every returning night.
The reader will perhaps be curious to know what has become of the third
member of our worthy trio, the apostate Torquatus. When, confused and
bewildered, he ran to look for the tomb which was to guide him, it so
happened, that, just within the gallery which he entered, was a
neglected staircase, cut in the sandstone, down to a lower story of the
cemetery. The steps had been worn round and smooth, and the descent was
precipitous. Torquatus, carrying his light before him, and running
heedlessly, fell headlong down the opening, and remained stunned and
insensible at the bottom, till long after his companions had retired. He
then revived, and for some time was so confused that he knew not where
he was. He arose and groped about, till, consciousness completely
returning, he remembered that he was in a catacomb, but could not make
out how he was alone and in the dark. It then struck him that he had a
supply of tapers about him, and means of lighting them. He employed
these, and was cheered by finding himself again in light. But he had
wandered from the staircase, of which, indeed, he recollected nothing,
and went on, and on, entangling himself more inextricably in the
subterranean labyrinth.
He felt sure that, before he had exhausted his strength or his tapers,
he should come to some outlet. But by degrees he began to feel serious
alarm. One after the other his lights were burnt out, and his vigor
began to fail, for he had been fasting from early morning; and he found
himself coming back to the same spot, after he had wandered about
apparently for hours. At first he had looked negligently around him, and
had carelessly read the inscriptions on the tombs. But as he grew
fainter, and his hope of relief weaker, these solemn monuments of death
began to speak to his soul, in a language that it could not refuse to
hear, nor pretend to misunderstand. “Deposited in peace,” was the inmate
of one; “resting in Christ” was another; and even the thousand nameless
ones around them reposed in silent calm, each with the seal of the
Church’s motherly care stamped upon his place of rest. And within, the
embalmed remains awaited the sound of angelic trumpet-notes, to awaken
them to a happy resurrection. And he, in a few more hours, would be dead
like them; he was lighting his last taper, and had sunk down upon a heap
of mould; but would he be laid in peace, by pious hands, as they? On the
cold ground, alone, he should die, unpitied, unmourned, unknown. There
he should rot, and drop to pieces; and if, in after years, his bones,
cast out from Christian sepulture, should be found, tradition might
conjecture that they were the accursed remains of an apostate lost in
the cemetery. And even they might be cast out, as he was, from the
communion of that hallowed ground.
It was coming on fast; he could feel it; his head reeled, his heart
fluttered. The taper was getting too short for his fingers, and he
placed it on a stone beside him. It might burn three minutes longer; but
a drop filtering through the ceiling, fell upon it, and extinguished it.
So covetous did he feel of those three minutes more of light, so jealous
was he of that little taper-end, as his last link with earth’s joys, so
anxious was he to have one more look at things without, lest he should
be forced to look at those within, that he drew forth his flint and
steel, and labored for a quarter of an hour to get a light from tinder,
damped by the cold perspiration on his body. And when he had lighted his
remnant of candle, instead of profiting by its flame to look around him,
he fixed his eyes upon it with an idiotic stare, watching it burn down,
as though it were the charm which bound his life, and this must expire
with it. And soon the last spark gleamed smouldering like a glow-worm,
on the red earth, and died.
Was he dead too? he thought. Why not? Darkness, complete and perpetual,
had come upon him. He was cut off for ever from consort with the living,
his mouth would no more taste food, his ears never again hear a sound,
his eyes behold no light, or thing, again. He was associated with the
dead, only his grave was much larger than theirs; but, for all that, it
was as dark and lonely, and closed for ever. What else is death?
No, it could not be death as yet. Death had to be followed by something
else. But even this was coming. The worm was beginning to gnaw his
conscience, and it grew apace to a viper’s length, and twisted itself
round his heart. He tried to think of pleasant things, and they came
before him; the quiet hours in the villa with Chromatius and Polycarp,
their kind words, and last embrace. But from the beautiful vision darted
a withering flash; he had betrayed them; he had told of them; to whom?
To Fulvius and Corvinus. The fatal chord was touched, like the tingling
nerve of a tooth, that darts its agony straight to the centre of the
brain. The drunken debauch, the dishonest play, the base hypocrisy, the
vile treachery, the insincere apostasy, the remorseful sacrileges, of
the last days, and the murderous attempt of that morning, now came
dancing, like demons hand in hand, in the dark before him, shouting,
laughing, jibing, weeping, moaning, gnashing their teeth; and sparks of
fire flying before his eyes, from his enfeebled brain, seemed to dart
from glaring torches in their hands. He sunk down and covered his eyes.
“I may be dead, after all,” he said to himself; “for the infernal pit
can have nothing worse than this.”
His heart was too weak for rage; it sunk within him in the impotence of
despair. His strength was ebbing fast, when he fancied he heard a
distant sound. He put away the thought; but the wave of a remote harmony
beat again upon his ear. He raised himself up; it was becoming distinct.
So sweet it sounded, so like a chorus of angelic voices, but in another
sphere, that he said to himself: “Who would have thought that Heaven was
so near to hell! Or are they accompanying the fearful Judge to try me?”
And now a faint glimmer of light appeared at the same distance as the
sounds; and the words of the strain were clearly heard:
“In pace, in idipsum, dormiam et requiescam.”[156]
“Those words are not for me. They might do at a martyr’s entombment;
they cannot at a reprobate’s burial.”
The light increased; it was like a dawn glowing into day; it entered the
gallery and passed across it, bearing in it, as in a mirror, a vision
too distinct to be unreal. First, there came virgins robed and holding
lamps; then four who carried between them a form wrapped up in a white
linen cloth, with a crown of thorns upon the head; after them the
youthful acolyte Tarcisius bearing a censer steaming with perfumed
smoke; and, after others of the clergy, the venerable Pontiff himself,
attended by Reparatus, and another deacon. Diogenes and his sons, with
sorrowful countenances, and many others, among whom he could distinguish
Sebastian, closed the procession. As many bore lamps or tapers, the
figures seemed to move in an unchanging atmosphere of mildest light.
And as they passed before him, they chanted the next verse of the psalm:
“Quoniam Tu Domine singulariter in spe constituisti me.”[157]
“_That_,” he exclaimed, rousing himself up, “_that_ is for me.”
With this thought he had sprung upon his knees; and by an instinct of
grace words which he had before heard came back to him like an echo;
words suited to the moment; words which he felt that he _must_ speak. He
crept forward, faint and feeble, turned along the gallery through which
the funeral procession was passing, and followed it, unobserved, at a
distance. It entered a chamber and lighted it up, so that a picture
[Illustration: The Martyr’s Burial.]
of the Good Shepherd looked brightly down on him. But he would not pass
the threshold, where he stood striking his breast and praying for mercy.
The body had been laid upon the ground, and other psalms and hymns were
sung, and prayers recited, all in that cheerful tone and joyous mood of
hopefulness, with which the Church has always treated of death. At
length it was placed in the tomb prepared for it, under an arch. While
this was being done, Torquatus drew nigh to one of the spectators, and
whispered to him the question:
“Whose funeral is this?”
“It is the _deposition_,” he answered, “of the blessed Cæcilia, a blind
virgin, who this morning fell into the hands of the soldiers, in this
cemetery, and whose soul God took to Himself.”
“Then I am her murderer,” he exclaimed, with a hollow moan; and
staggering forward to the holy bishop’s feet, fell prostrate before him.
It was some time before his feelings could find vent in words; when
these came, they were the ones he had resolved to utter:
“Father, I have sinned before heaven, and against Thee, and I am not
worthy to be called Thy child.”
The Pontiff raised him up kindly, and pressed him to his bosom, saying,
“Welcome back, my son, whoever thou art, to thy Father’s house. But thou
art weak and faint, and needest rest.”
Some refreshment was immediately procured. But Torquatus would not rest
till he had publicly avowed the whole of his guilt, including the day’s
crimes; for it was still the evening of the same day. All rejoiced at
the prodigal’s return, at the lost sheep’s recovery. Agnes looked up to
heaven from her last affectionate glance on the blind virgin’s shroud,
and thought that she could almost see her seated at the feet of her
Spouse, smiling, with her eyes wide open, as she cast down a handful of
flowers on the head of the penitent, the first-fruits of her
intercession in heaven.
[Illustration: Jesus cures the Blind Man, from a picture in the Cemetery
of St. Domitilla.]
Diogenes and his sons took charge of him. An humble lodging was procured
for him, in a Christian cottage near, that he might not be within the
reach of temptation, or of vengeance, and he was enrolled in the class
of penitents, where years of expiation, shortened by the intercession of
confessors--that is, future martyrs--would prepare him for full
re-admission to the privileges he had forfeited.[158]