THE PUBLIC WORKS.
If, before the edict, the Thermæ of Dioclesian were being erected by the
labor and sweat of Christian prisoners, it will not appear surprising,
that their number and their sufferings should have greatly increased,
with the growing intensity of a most savage persecution. That emperor
himself was expected for the inauguration of his favorite building, and
hands were doubled on the work to expedite its completion. Chains of
supposed culprits arrived each day from the port of Luna, from Sardinia,
and even from the Crimea, or Chersonesus, where they had been engaged in
quarries or mines; and were put to labor in the harder departments of
the building art. To transport materials, to saw and cut stone and
marble, to mix the mortar, and to build up the walls, were the duties
allotted to the religious culprits, many of whom were men little
accustomed to such menial toil. The only recompense which they received
for their labor, was that of the mules and oxen which shared their
occupation. Little better, if better, than a stable to sleep in, food
sufficient in quantity to keep up their strength, clothing enough to
guard them from the inclemency of the season, this was all they had to
expect. Fetters on their ankles, heavy chains to prevent their escape,
increased their sufferings; and task-masters, acceptable in proportion
as they were unreasonable, watched every gang with lash or stick in
hand, ever ready to add pain to toil, whether it were to vent their own
wanton cruelty upon unresisting objects, or to please their crueller
masters.
But the Christians of Rome took peculiar care of these blessed
confessors, who were particularly venerated by them. Their deacons
visited them, by bribing their guards; and young men would boldly
venture among them, and distribute more nourishing food, or warmer
clothing to them, or give them the means of conciliating their keepers,
so as to obtain better treatment at their hands. They would then also
recommend themselves to their prayers, as they kissed the chains and the
bruises, which these holy confessors bore for Christ.
This assemblage of men, convicted of serving faithfully their divine
Master, was useful for another purpose. Like the stew in which the
luxurious Lucullus kept his lampreys ready fattened for a banquet; like
the cages in which rare birds, the pens in which well-fed cattle, were
preserved for the sacrifice, or the feast of an imperial anniversary;
like the dens near the amphitheatre, in which ferocious beasts were fed
for exhibition at the public games; just so were the public works the
preserves, from which at any time could be drawn the materials for a
sanguinary hecatomb, or a gratification of the popular appetite for
cruel spectacles, on any occasion of festivity; public stores of food
for those fierce animals, whenever the Roman people wished to share in
their savage propensities.
Such an occasion was now approaching. The persecution had lingered. No
person of note had been yet captured; the failures of the first day had
not been fully repaired; and something more wholesale was expected. The
people demanded more sport; and an approaching imperial birthday
justified their gratification. The wild beasts, which Sebastian and
Pancratius had heard, yet roared for their lawful prey. “_Christianos ad
leones_” might seem to have been interpreted by them, as meaning “that
the Christians of right belonged to them.”
One afternoon, towards the end of December, Corvinus proceeded to the
Baths of Dioclesian, accompanied by Catulus, who had an eye for proper
combatants in the amphitheatre, such as a good dealer would have for
cattle at a fair. He called for Rabirius, the superintendent of the
convict department, and said to him:
“Rabirius, I am come by order of the emperor, to select a sufficient
number of the wicked Christians under your charge, for the honor of
fighting in the amphitheatre, on occasion of the coming festival.”
“Really,” answered the officer, “I have none to spare. I am obliged to
finish the work in a given time, and I cannot do so, if I am left short
of hands.”
“I cannot help that; others will be got to replace those that are taken
from you. You must walk Catulus and myself through your works, and let
us choose those that will suit us.”
Rabirius, grumbling at this unreasonable demand, submitted nevertheless
to it, and took them into a vast area, just vaulted over. It was entered
by a circular vestibule lighted from above, like the Pantheon. This led
into one of the shorter arms of a cruciform hall of noble dimensions,
into which opened a number of lesser, though still handsome, chambers.
At each angle of the hall, where the arms intersected one another, a
huge granite pillar of one block had to be erected. Two were already in
their places, one was girt with ropes delivered round capstans, ready to
be raised on the morrow. A number of men were actively employed in
making final preparations. Catulus nudged Corvinus, and pointed, with
his thumb, to two fine youths, who, stripped slave-fashion to their
waists, were specimens of manly athletic forms.
“I must have those two, Rabirius,” said the willing purveyor to wild
beasts; “they will do charmingly. I am sure they are Christians, they
work so cheerfully.”
“I cannot possibly spare them at present. They are worth six men, or a
pair of horses, at least, to me. Wait till the heavy work is over, and
then they are at your service.”
“What are their names, that I may take a note of them? And mind, keep
them up in good condition.”
“They are called Largus and Smaragdus; they are young men of excellent
family, but work like plebeians, and will go with you nothing loth.”
“They shall have their wish,” said Corvinus, with great glee. And so
they had later.
As they went through the works, however, they picked out a number of
captives, for many of whom Rabirius made resistance, but generally in
vain. At length they came near one of those chambers which flanked the
eastern side of the longer arm of the hall. In one of them they saw a
number of convicts (if we must use the term) resting after their labor.
The centre of the group was an old man, most venerable in appearance,
with a long white beard streaming on his breast, mild in aspect, gentle
in word, cheerful in his feeble action. It was the confessor Saturninus,
now in his eightieth year, yet loaded with two heavy chains. At each
side were the more youthful laborers, Cyriacus and Sisinnius, of whom it
is recorded, that, in addition to their own task-work, one on each side,
they bore up his bonds. Indeed, we are told that their particular
delight was, over and above their own assigned portion of toil, to help
their weaker brethren, and perform their work for them.[160] But their
time was not yet come; for both of them, before they received their
crowns, were ordained deacons in the next pontificate.
Several other captives lay on the ground, about the old man’s feet, as
he, seated on a block of marble, was talking to them, with a sweet
gravity, which riveted their attention, and seemed to make them forget
their sufferings. What was he saying to them? Was he requiting Cyriacus
for his extraordinary charity, by telling him that, in commemoration of
it, a portion of the immense pile which they were toiling to raise,
would be dedicated to God, under his invocation, become a title, and
close its line of titulars by an illustrious name?[161] Or was he
recounting another more glorious vision, how this smaller oratory was to
be superseded and absorbed by a glorious temple in honor of the Queen of
Angels, which should comprise the entire of that superb hall, with its
vestibule, under the directing skill of the mightiest artistic genius
that the world should ever see?[162] What more consoling thought could
have been vouchsafed to those poor oppressed captives, than that they
were not so much erecting baths for the luxury of a heathen people, or
the prodigality of a wicked emperor, as in truth building up one of the
stateliest churches in which the true God is worshipped, and the Virgin
Mother, who bore Him incarnate, is affectionately honored?
From a distance Corvinus saw the group; and pausing, asked the
superintendent the names of those who composed it. He enumerated them
readily; then added, “You may as well take that old man, if you like;
for he is not worth his keep, as far as work goes.”
“Thank you,” replied Corvinus, “a pretty figure he would cut in the
amphitheatre. The people are not to be put off with decrepit old
creatures, whom a single stroke of a bear’s or tiger’s paw kills
outright. They like to see young blood flowing, and plenty of life
struggling against wounds and blows, before death comes to decide the
contest. But there is one there whom you have not named. His face is
turned from us; he has not the prisoner’s garb, nor any kind of fetter.
Who can it be?”
“I do not know his name,” answered Rabirius; “but he is a fine youth,
who spends much of his time among the convicts, relieves them, and even
at times helps them in their work. He pays, of course, well for being
allowed all this; so it is not our business to ask questions.”
“But it is mine, though,” said Corvinus, sharply; and he advanced for
this purpose. The voice caught the stranger’s ear, and he turned round
to look.
[Illustration: A Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs.]
Corvinus sprung upon him with the eye and action of a wild beast, seized
him, and called out, with exultation, “Fetter him instantly. This time
at least, Pancratius, thou shalt not escape.”