THE RESCUE.
In spite of every attempt at concealment, the news was soon spread among
all connected with the court, that Sebastian had been discovered to be a
Christian, and was to be shot to death on the morrow. But on none did
the double intelligence make such an impression as on Fabiola.
Sebastian a Christian! she said to herself; the noblest, purest, wisest
of Rome’s nobility a member of that vile, stupid sect? Impossible! Yet,
the fact seems certain. Have I, then, been deceived? Was he not that
which he seemed? Was he a mean impostor, who affected virtue, but was
secretly a libertine? Impossible, too! Yes, this was indeed impossible!
She had certain proofs of it. He knew that he might have had her hand
and fortune for the asking, and he had acted most generously and most
delicately towards her. He was what he seemed, that she was sure--not
gilded, but gold.
Then how account for this phenomenon, of a Christian being all that was
good, virtuous, amiable?
One solution never occurred to Fabiola’s mind, that he was all this
_because_ he was a Christian. She only saw the problem in another form;
how could he be all that he was _in spite_ of being a Christian?
She turned it variously in her mind, in vain. Then it came to her
thought thus. Perhaps, after all, good old Chromatius was right, and
Christianity may not be what I have fancied; and I ought to have
inquired more about it. I am sure Sebastian never did the horrible
things imputed to Christians. Yet every body charges them with them.
Might there not be a more refined form of this religion, and a more
grovelling one; just as she knew there was in her own sect,
Epicureanism? one coarse, material, wallowing in the very mire of
sensualism; the other refined, sceptical and reflective. Sebastian would
belong to the higher class, and despise and loathe the superstitions and
vices of the commoner Christians. Such a hypothesis might be tenable;
but it was hard to reconcile to her intellect, how a man like that noble
soldier could, any way, have belonged to that hated race. And yet he was
ready to die for their faith! As to Zoë and the others, she had heard
nothing, for she had only returned the day before from a journey made
into Campania, to arrange her father’s affairs.
What a pity, she thought, that she had not talked more to Sebastian on
such subjects! But it was now too late; to-morrow morning he would be no
more. This second thought came with the sharp pang of a shaft shot into
her heart. She felt as if she personally were about to suffer a loss, as
if Sebastian’s fate were going to fall on some one closely bound to her,
by some secret and mysterious tie.
Her thoughts grew darker and sadder, as she dwelt on these ideas amidst
the deepening gloom. She was suddenly disturbed by the entrance of a
slave with a light. It was Afra, the black servant, who came to prepare
her mistress’s evening repast, which she wished to take alone. While
busy with her arrangements, she said, “Have you heard the news, madam?”
“What news?”
“Only that Sebastian is going to be shot with arrows to-morrow morning.
What a pity; he was such a handsome youth!”
“Be silent, Afra; unless you have some information to give me on the
subject.”
“Oh, of course, my mistress; and my information is indeed very
astonishing. Do you know that he turns out to be one of those wretched
Christians?”
“Hold your peace, I pray you, and do not prate any more about what you
do not understand.”
“Certainly not, if you so wish it; I suppose his fate is quite a matter
of indifference to you, madam. It certainly is to _me_. He won’t be the
first officer that my countrymen have shot. Many they have killed, and
some they have saved. But of course that was all chance.”
There was a significance in her words and tones, which did not escape
the quick ear and mind of Fabiola. She looked up, for the first time,
and fixed her eyes searchingly on her maid’s swarthy face. There was no
emotion in it; she was placing a flagon of wine upon the table, just as
if she had not spoken. At length the lady said to her:
“Afra, what do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. What can a poor slave know? Still more, what can
she do?”
“Come, come, you meant by your words something that I must know.”
The slave came round the table, close to the couch on which Fabiola
rested, looked behind her, and around her, then whispered, “Do you want
Sebastian’s life preserved?”
Fabiola almost leaped up, as she replied, “Certainly.”
The servant put her finger to her lip, to enforce silence, and said, “It
will cost dear.”
“Name your price.”
“A hundred _sestertia_,[184] and my liberty.”
“I accept your terms; but what is my security for them?”
“They shall be binding only if, twenty-four hours after the execution,
he is still alive.”
“Agreed; and what is yours?”
“Your word, lady.”
“Go, Afra, lose not a moment.”
“There is no hurry,” quietly replied the slave, as she completed,
unflurried, the preparations for supper.
She then proceeded at once to the palace, and to the Mauritanian
quarters, and went in directly to the commander.
“What dost thou want, Jubala,” he said, “at this hour? There is no
festival to-night.”
“I know, Hyphax; but I have important business with thee.”
“What is it about?”
“About thee, about myself, and about thy prisoner.”
“Look at _him_ there,” said the barbarian, pointing across the court,
which his door commanded. “You would not think that _he_ is going to be
shot to-morrow. See how soundly he sleeps. He could not do so better, if
he were going to be married instead.”
“As thou and I, Hyphax, intend to be the next day.”
“Come, not quite so fast; there are certain conditions to be fulfilled
first.”
“Well, what are they?”
“First, thy manumission. I cannot marry a slave.”
“That is secured.”
“Secondly, a dowry, a _good_ dowry, mind; for I never wanted money more
than now.”
“That is safe too. How much dost thou expect?”
“Certainly not less than three hundred pounds.”[185]
“I bring thee six hundred.”
“Excellent! where didst thou get all this cash? Whom hast thou robbed?
whom hast thou poisoned, my admirable priestess? Why wait till _after_
to-morrow? Let it be to-morrow, to-night, if it please thee.”
“Be quiet now, Hyphax; the money is all lawful gain; but it has its
conditions, too. I said I came to speak about the prisoner also.”
“Well, what has he to do with our approaching nuptials?”
“A great deal.”
“What now?”
“He must not die.”
The captain looked at her with a mixture of fury and stupidity. He
seemed on the point of laying violent hands on her; but she stood
intrepid and unmoved before him, and seemed to command him by the strong
fascination of her eye, as one of the serpents of their native land
might do a vulture.
“Art mad?” he at last exclaimed; “thou mightest as well at once ask for
my head. If thou hadst seen the emperor’s face, when he issued his
orders, thou wouldst have known he will have no trifling with him here.”
“Pshaw! pshaw! man; of course the prisoner will appear dead, and will be
reported as dead.”
“And if he finally recover?”
“His fellow-Christians will take care to keep him out of the way.”
“Didst thou say twenty-four hours alive? I wish thou hadst made it
twelve.”
“Well, but I know that thou canst calculate close. Let him die in the
twenty-fifth hour, for what I care.”
“It is impossible, Jubala, impossible; he is too important a person.”
“Very well, then; there is an end to our bargain. The money is given
only on this condition. Six hundred pounds thrown away!” And she turned
off to go.
“Stay, stay,” said Hyphax, eagerly; the demon of covetousness coming
uppermost. “Let us see. Why, my fellows will consume half the money, in
bribes and feasting.”
“Well, I have two hundred more in reserve for that.”
“Sayest thou so, my princess, my sorceress, my charming demon? But that
will be too much for my scoundrels. We will give them half, and add the
other half--to our marriage-settlements, shan’t we?”
“As it pleases thee, provided the thing is done according to my
proposal.”
“It is a bargain, then. He shall live twenty-four hours; and after that,
we will have a glorious wedding.”
Sebastian, in the meantime, was unconscious of these amiable
negotiations for his safety; for, like Peter between two guards, he was
slumbering soundly by the wall of the court. Fatigued with his day’s
work, he had enjoyed the rare advantage of retiring early to rest; and
the marble pavement was a good enough soldier’s bed. But, after a few
hours’ repose, he awoke refreshed; and now that all was hushed, he
silently rose, and with outstretched arms, gave himself up to prayer.
The martyr’s prayer is not a preparation for death; for his is a death
that needs no preparation. The soldier who suddenly declares himself a
Christian, bends down his head, and mingles his blood with that of the
confessor, whom he had come to execute; or the friend, of unknown name,
who salutes the martyr going to death, is seized, and made to bear him
willing company,[186] is as prepared for martyrdom, as he who has passed
months in prison engaged in prayer. It is not a cry, therefore, for the
forgiveness of past sin; for there is a consciousness of that perfect
love, which sendeth out fear, an inward assurance of that highest grace,
which is incompatible with sin.
Nor in Sebastian was it a prayer for courage or strength; for the
opposite feeling, which could suggest it, was unknown to him. It never
entered into his mind to doubt, that as he had faced death intrepidly
for his earthly sovereign on the battle-field, so he should meet it
joyfully for his heavenly Lord, in any place.
His prayer, then, till morning, was a gladsome hymn of glory and honor
to the King of kings, a joining with the seraph’s glowing eyes, and
ever-shaking wings, in restless homage.
Then when the stars in the bright heavens caught his eyes, he challenged
them as wakeful sentinels like himself, to exchange the watchword of
Divine praises; and as the night-wind rustled in the leafless trees of
the neighboring court of Adonis, he bade its wayward music compose
itself, and its rude harping upon the vibrating boughs form softer
hymns,--the only ones that earth could utter in its winter night-hours.
Now burst on him the thrilling thought that the morning hour approached,
for the cock had crowed; and he would soon hear those branches murmuring
over him to the sharp whistle of flying arrows, unerring in their aim.
And he offered himself gladly to their sharp tongues, hissing as the
serpent’s, to drink his blood. He offered himself as an oblation for
God’s honor, and for the appeasing of his wrath. He offered himself
particularly for the afflicted Church, and prayed that his death might
mitigate her sufferings.
And then his thoughts rose higher, from the earthly to the celestial
Church; soaring like the eagle from the highest pinnacle of the
mountain-peak, towards the sun. Clouds have rolled away, and the blue
embroidered veil of morning is rent in twain, like the sanctuary’s, and
he sees quite into its revealed depths; far, far inwards, beyond senates
of saints and legions of angels, to what Stephen saw of inmost and
intensest glory. And now his hymn was silent; harmonies came to him, too
sweet and perfect to brook the jarring of a terrestrial voice; they came
to him, requiring no return; for they brought heaven into his soul; and
what could he give back? It was as a fountain of purest refreshment,
more like gushing light than water, flowing from the foot of the Lamb,
and poured into his heart, which could only be passive, and receive the
gift. Yet in its sparkling bounds, as it rippled along towards him, he
could see the countenance now of one, and then of another of the happy
friends who had gone before him; as if they were drinking, and bathing,
and disporting, and plunging, and dissolving themselves in those living
waters.
His countenance was glowing as with the very reflection of the vision,
and the morning dawn just brightening (oh, what a dawn that is!), caught
his face as he stood up, with his arms in a cross, opposite the east; so
that when Hyphax opened his door and saw him, he could have crept across
the court and worshipped him on his face.
Sebastian awoke as from a trance; and the chink of sesterces sounded in
the mental ears of Hyphax; so he set scientifically about earning them.
He picked out of his troop of a hundred, five marksmen, who could split
a flying arrow with a fleeter one, called them into his room, told them
their reward, concealing his own share, and arranged how the execution
was to be managed. As to the body, Christians had already secretly
offered a large additional sum for its delivery, and two slaves were to
wait outside to receive it. Among his own followers he could fully
depend on secrecy.
Sebastian was conducted into the neighboring court of the palace, which
separated the quarters of these African archers from his own dwelling.
It was planted with rows of trees, and consecrated to Adonis. He walked
cheerfully in the midst of his executioners, followed by the whole band,
who were alone allowed to be spectators, as they would have been of an
ordinary exhibition of good archery. The officer was stripped and bound
to a tree, while the chosen five took their stand opposite, cool and
collected. It was at best a desolate sort of death. Not a friend, not a
sympathizer near; not one fellow-Christian to bear his farewell to the
faithful, or to record for them his last accents, and the constancy of
his end. To stand in the middle of the crowded amphitheatre, with a
hundred thousand witnesses of Christian constancy, to see the
encouraging looks of many, and hear the whispered blessings of a few
loving acquaintances, had something cheering, and almost inspiring in
it; it lent at least the feeble aid of human emotions, to the more
powerful sustainment of grace. The very shout of an insulting multitude
put a strain upon natural courage, as the hunter’s cry only nerves the
stag at bay. But this dead and silent scene, at dawn of day, shut up in
the court of a house; this being, with most unfeeling indifference tied
up, like a truss of hay, or a stuffed figure, to be coolly aimed at,
according to the tyrant’s orders; this being alone in the midst of a
horde of swarthy savages, whose very language was strange, uncouth, and
unintelligible; but who were no doubt uttering their rude jokes, and
laughing, as men do before a match or a game, which they are going to
enjoy; all this had more the appearance of a piece of cruelty, about to
be acted in a gloomy forest by banditti, than open and glorious
confession of Christ’s name; it looked and felt more like assassination
than martyrdom.
But Sebastian cared not for all this. Angels looked over the wall upon
him; and the rising sun, which dazzled his eyes, but made him a clearer
mark for his bowmen, shone not more brightly on him, than did the
countenance of the only Witness he cared to have of suffering endured
for His sake.
The first Moor drew his bow-string to his ear, and an arrow trembled in
the flesh of Sebastian. Each chosen marksman followed in turn; and
shouts of applause accompanied each hit, so cleverly approaching, yet
avoiding, according to the imperial order, every vital part. And so the
game went on; every body laughing, and brawling, and jeering, and
enjoying it without a particle of feeling for the now drooping frame,
painted with blood;[187] all in sport, except the martyr, to whom all
was sober earnest--each sharp pang, the enduring smart, the exhaustion,
the weariness, the knotty bonds, the constrained attitude! Oh! but
earnest too was the steadfast heart, the untiring spirit, the unwavering
faith, the unruffled patience, the unsated love of suffering for his
Lord. Earnest was the prayer, earnest the gaze of the eye on heaven,
earnest the listening of the ear for the welcoming strain of the
heavenly porters, as they should open the gate.
It was indeed a dreary death; yet this was not the worst. After all,
death came not; the golden gates remained unbarred; the martyr in heart,
still reserved for greater glory even upon earth, found himself, not
suddenly translated from death to life, but sunk into unconsciousness in
the lap of angels. His tormentors saw when they had reached their
intended measure; they cut the cords that bound him; and Sebastian fell
exhausted, and to all appearance dead, upon the carpet of blood which he
had spread for himself on the pavement. Did he lie, like a noble
warrior, as he now appears in marble under his altar, in his own dear
church? We at least cannot imagine him as more beautiful. And not only
that church do we love, but that ancient chapel which stands in the
midst of the ruined Palatine, to mark the spot on which he fell.[188]
[Illustration: Elias carried up to Heaven, from a picture found in the
Catacombs.]