“What have I done?” I thought, “years have rolled by, nor could I
flatter myself with the hope of success even if I wandered over all the
territory of Rome, and ventured to the unknown land of the barbarian.”
I now remembered that I had heard Apicius speak of some wealthy merchant
residing in Berytus, who owned many galleys in communicating with the
coast of Africa, but he had gone to his villa, and I was obliged to
postpone my investigation.
Returning to the hall, I met Septimus, who told me the last that had
been heard of Mobilius was from a Syrian merchant, who knew and accosted
him hastening toward the road leading to the mountains, but with his eye
riveted upon the path. He advanced with rapid strides. I then told
Septimus the news his slave had brought.
“Alas! there is no longer a doubt, Servilius,” he replied, “since this
is the same road on which the temple stands.”
We parted in grief, and Septimus in despair.
When first I met Mobilius there was a levity in his manner which did not
please me, but since his conversations with Lactantius a noted change
had been wrought in him, and the hidden virtues of his character shone
unclouded.
We did not meet until we mingled at the evening tables; but no joy was
there, and the silence was only broken by a loud cry from the slaves, as
if something unusual had taken place. Septimus arose to ascertain the
cause, when he was suddenly confronted by Mobilius, with dishevelled
hair and robes. A shriek of surprise and joy burst from every tongue.
“We greet you, my dear Mobilius,” said Sergius, as he pressed his hand
with parental fondness.
Mobilius cast upon him a look of wonder, blended with bewilderment, as
if in the sudden but vain effort to recall some long effaced
recollection, or it might have been from gratitude at the interest of a
stranger in a stranger’s fate. All with one accord begged him to tell
the cause of his absence.
“I knew you would feel solicitude,” he said, “and as you perceive by the
dust upon my robe, I have hastened to relieve your anxieties. The
conversation of last night, and the light that suddenly broke upon my
soul, for the while robbed me of my senses. I hurried from you, nor did
I stop until I left the city many a pace behind me. Midnight gathered
on. I began to recollect myself and sought shelter at the temple which
lay in my way. I struck its gate with redoubling blows. I cried aloud,
but none answered. Verily you might perish before these cruel priests
would give you protection. A lofty tree presented the only refuge.
Awakened by the morning sun, and descending, I retraced my steps with as
much anxiety to reach Heliopolis as I had felt to leave it. I had not
gone far, however, when to my horror I encountered that terrible lion of
the amphitheatre. Subterfuge and presence of mind afforded the only
chance of safety. Escape was impossible, and weapon I had none. He fixed
his fiery eye upon me, lashed his tail, as if sure of his prey, and
crouched to spring. Now was the only hope. Hastily unloosening my light
robe, I suddenly raised it upon a slender stick, torn from a neighboring
bush, and quickly stepped aside. The deceit was successful, the furious
animal sprang at it, dragged it on the ground, and tore it into atoms.
Rushing toward a tree, while I left him at the garment, I mounted among
its branches as with wings. I do assure you I never climbed with more
alacrity. The noble animal, discovering his mistake, scowled with sullen
fierceness toward my place of shelter, and seemingly satisfied with the
vengeance he had taken, strode onward.”
“A most fortunate escape,” ejaculated Valerius; “you must present your
gifts to-morrow at the temple.” A tear twinkled in the eye of
Lactantius, and I fancied I saw his lips move as in the act of prayer.
“Yes, Valerius, and it is not the first escape with which a guardian
Providence has blessed me. Shipwreck and slavery I also have escaped.”
“Shipwreck,” enquired Sergius, with anxiety, “will you tell us the sad
story? I had a son who was shipwrecked,” and the old man trembled in the
effort to subdue his grief.
“I will. I left Rome on a voyage to Athens; we were driven by stress of
weather into a port of Sicily. The storm abating, we pursued our course
along the coast of Africa, being obliged to touch at Alexandria, but we
were wrecked before we reached our haven, and nearly all the crew were
swallowed by the waves.”
“Pardon me for asking,” said Marcus, “but did you not write to Rome,
after you secured your liberty, to discover whether your kindred were
still living?”
“I wrote many epistles, and to my uncle also, who told me they were all
carried off by a terrible pestilence, which visited the city, and that
my patrimony had been previously confiscated to the state, because of
some act of my parent, and that if I ventured to Rome the rage of my
father’s enemies would doubtless be turned against me. I had no wish,
however, to undertake the voyage, since those most cherished were no
more.”
“And what was the name of your father?” asked Lactantius.
“Lucius Sergius.”
The venerable man paused for a moment in mute bewilderment, and then
rushed into the arms of Mobilius, exclaiming, “Caius, my son, my long
lost son!”
“My sisters,” he cried, as they ran to embrace their beloved brother,
and wept with joy. It was a touching scene, and the ecstacy of gladness
brightened every face. Here let me drop the veil with the promise of
ending the description of the trials and fortunes of my friend in my
next epistle.
Farewell.
* * * * *