and were already beneath the shade of the great Temple of Isis and
Serapis, (which stands on the northern side of the Esquiline Hill, nigh
over against the Amphitheatre of Vespasian,) when, from the opposite side
of the way, we were hailed by a small party of soldiers, who, as it turned
out, had been sent from the Prætorian camp in search of Sabinus, and one
of whom had now recognized his gait and stature, notwithstanding the
obscurity of the hour. The Centurion went aside with the leader of these
men for some moments, and then informed us that it was very fortunate they
had so easily recognized him, as the business on which they had been sent
was such as did not admit of being negligently dealt with. “To-morrow,”
said he, pointing to the Amphitheatre before us, “that glorious edifice is
to be the scene of one of the grandest shows exhibited by Trajan since his
accession to the empire. It is the anniversary of the day on which he was
adopted by Nerva, and the splendour of the spectacle will be in proportion
to the gratitude and veneration with which he at all times regards the
memory of that excellent benefactor. But there are some parts of the
exhibition that I am afraid old Nerva, could he be present to behold them,
would not regard with the same feelings as his successor.” “Surely,” said
I, “the beneficent Trajan will not stain the expression of his gratitude
by any thing unworthy of himself, or that could give displeasure to
Nerva?” “Nay,” replied the Centurion, “it is not for me to talk about any
thing that Trajan chooses to do being unworthy of Trajan; but you well
know that Nerva would never suffer any of the Christians to be molested
during his reign, and now here are some of these unhappy fanatics, that
are to be compelled either to renounce their faith in the face of the
assembly to-morrow, or to die in the arena. It is to inspect the condition
of these unfortunates, who, I know not for what reason, are confined in a
dungeon below the ramparts in the vicinity of our camp, and to announce to
them the final determination of their fate, that I, as Centurion of the
night, have now been summoned. If you are curious to see the men, you are
at liberty to go with me, and I shall be obliged to you for your company.”
My curiosity having been excited in regard to the new faith and its
adherents, I was very desirous to accept of this offer. Nor did Sextus any
sooner perceive that such was my inclination, than he advised me to
gratify it, undertaking, at the same time, to satisfy his father, in case
of any inquiry, that I was in a place of safety, and under the protection
of Sabinus. With him, therefore, and with his Prætorians, I proceeded
along various streets which led us by the skirts of the Esquiline and
Viminal Hills, on to the region of the Mounds of Tarquin, over against
which, as you have heard, the great camp of those bands is situated;—if
indeed that ought of right to be called by the name of a camp, which is
itself a city of no slender dimensions, and built with great splendour of
architecture, spread out beyond the limits of Rome, for the accommodation
of that proud soldiery. There my friend took me into his chamber, and
furnished me with a cloak and helmet, that I might excite no suspicion by
accompanying him on his errand. The watch-word of the night also was given
me, _Silent faith_; and proceeding again, we shortly reached the place
where the Christians were lying.
_CHAPTER VIII._
Entering the guard-room, we found it crowded with spearmen of Sabinus’s
band, some playing at dice, others carousing jovially, many wrapt up in
their mantles, and asleep upon the floor; while a few only were sitting
beneath the porch, with their spears in their hands, and leaning upon
their bucklers. From one of these, the Centurion, having drawn him aside,
made inquiry concerning the names and condition of the prisoners, and
whether as yet they had received any intelligence as to the morrow. The
soldier, who was a grave man, well stricken in years, made answer, “that
the men were free-born and of decent estate, and that he had not heard of
any thing else being laid to their charge, excepting that which concerned
their religion. Since they have been here,” he continued, “I have been
several times set on watch over them, and twice have I lain with one of
them in his dungeon; yet have I heard no complaints from any of them, for
in all things they are patient. One of them only is to suffer
to-morrow—but for him I am especially concerned, for he was known to me of
old, having served often with me when I was a horseman in the army of
Titus, all through the war of Palestine, and at the siege of Jerusalem.”
“And of what country is he?” said Sabinus. “Is he also a Roman?” “No,
sir,” answered the spearman, “he is no Roman; but he was of a troop of the
allies that was joined often to our legion, and I have seen him bear
himself on the day of battle as well as any Roman. He is by birth a Greek
of the Syrian coast; but his mother was of the nation of the Jews.” “And
yet, although the son of a Jewess, he was with us, say you, at the siege
of Jerusalem?” “Even so,” replied the man; “and not he only, but many
others; for the Jews were divided against themselves; and of all them that
were Christians, not one abode in the city, or gave help to defend it. As
this man himself said, the oracles of the Christians, and their prophets,
had of old given warning that the city must fall into the hands of Cæsar,
by reason of the wickedness of that people; therefore, when we set our
camp against Jerusalem, these all passed out from the city, with their
wives and children, and dwelt safely in the mountainous country until the
fate was fulfilled. But some of their young men fought in our camp, and
did good service, because the place was known to them, and they had
acquaintance with all the secrets of the Rock. Of these, this man was one.
He and all his household had departed from the ancient religion of the
Jews, and were believers in the doctrines of the Christians, for which
cause he is now to suffer; and of that, although I have not spoken to him
this evening, I think he has already received some intelligence, for
certain of his friends passed in to him, and they covered their faces as
they went in, as if weeping.” “Are these friends still with him?” said
Sabinus. “Yes,” answered he, “for I must have seen them had they come
forth again. Without doubt, the two women are still with him in his
dungeon.” “Women?” quoth Sabinus; “and of what condition think you they
may be?” “That I know not,” replied the soldier; “for, as I have said,
they were muffled in their mantles. But one of them, at least, is a Roman,
for I heard her speak to him that is by the door of the dungeon.” “How
long is it,” said the Centurion, “since they went in to the prisoner?”
“More than an hour,” replied the soldier, looking at the water-clock that
stood beneath the porch; “and if they be Christians, they are not yet
about to depart, for they never separate without singing together, which
is said to be their favourite manner of worship.”
He had scarcely uttered these words, when the soldiers that were carousing
within the guard-room became silent, and we heard the voices of those that
were in the dungeon singing together in a sweet and lowly manner. “Ah,
sir!” said the old soldier, “I thought it would be even so—there is not a
spearman in the band that would not willingly watch here a whole night,
could he be sure of hearing that melody. Well do I know that soft
voice—Hear now, how she sings by herself—and there again, that deep strong
note—that is the voice of the prisoner.”
“Hush!” quoth the Centurion, “heard you ever any thing half so divine? Are
these words Greek or Syrian?” “What the words are I know not,” said the
soldier; “but I know the tune well.—I have heard it played many a night
with hautboy, clarion, and dulcimer, on the high walls of Jerusalem, while
the city was beleaguered.” “It is some old Jewish tune then,” said
Sabinus; “I knew not those barbarians had had half so much art.”
“Why, as for that, sir,” replied the man, “I have been all over Greece and
Egypt—to say nothing of Italy—and I never heard any music like that music
of the Jews. When they came down to join the battle, their trumpets
sounded so gloriously, that we wondered how it was possible for them ever
to be driven back; and then, when their gates were closed, and they sent
out to beg their dead, they would play such solemn awful notes of
lamentation, that the plunderers stood still to listen, and their warriors
were delivered to them with all their mail as they had fallen.” “And the
Christians also,” said Sabinus, “had the same tunes?” “Oh yes, sir—why,
for that matter, these very tunes may have been among them, for aught we
know, since the beginning of their nation. I have stood sentinel with this
very man, and seen the tears run down his cheeks by the star-light, when
he heard the music from the city, as the Jewish captains were going their
rounds upon the battlements.” “But this, surely,” said the Centurion, “is
no warlike melody.” “I know not,” quoth the old soldier, “whether it be or
not—but I am sure it sounds not like any music of sorrow,—and yet what
plaintive tones are in the part of that female voice!” “The bass sounds
triumphantly, in good sooth.” “Ay, sir, but that is the old man’s own
voice—I am sure he will keep a good heart to the end, even though they
should be singing their farewell to him. Well, the Emperor loses a good
soldier, the hour Tisias dies. I wish to Jupiter he had not been a
Christian, or had kept his religion to himself. But as for changing
now—you might as well think of persuading the Prince himself to be a Jew.”
“That last high strain, however,” quoth Sabinus, “has ended their singing.
Let us speak to the women as they come out; and if it be so that the man
is already aware of what is to be done to-morrow, I see not why we should
trouble him with entering his cell. He has but a few hours to live, and I
would not willingly disturb him.” “I hear them coming,” said the soldier.
“Then do you meet them,” said Sabinus, “and tell them that the Centurion
wishes to speak to them ere they go away—we will retire out of hearing of
the guard.”
With that he and I withdrew to the other side of the way, over against the
door of the prison; and we stood there waiting for the women under a
fig-tree, close by the city wall. In a few minutes two persons, arrayed as
the soldier had described, drew near to us; and one of them, without
uncovering her countenance, said,—“Master, we trust we have done no evil
in visiting the prisoners; had it been so, surely we should not have been
permitted to enter without question.”
These words were spoken in a voice tremulous, as if with grief rather than
with terror; but I could not help starting when I heard them. However, I
commanded myself, and heard in silence what Sabinus replied.—“Be not
alarmed,” said he; “there is no offence committed, for no orders have been
issued to prevent these men from seeing their friends. I sent for you, not
to find fault with what you have done, but only to ask whether this
prisoner has already been told that the Emperor has announced his
resolution concerning him, and that he must die to-morrow, in the
Amphitheatre of Vespasian, unless he renounce his superstition.”—“He knows
all,” answered the same voice; “and is prepared for all.”
“By heavens! Valerius,” whispered Sabinus; “it is no mean person that
speaks so—this is the accent and the gesture of a Roman lady.” Then
raising his voice, “In that case there is no need for my going into the
dungeon; and yet, could I hope to say any thing that might tend to make
him change his purpose, I would most gladly do so. The Emperor is as
humane as he is just, and unless when rebellious obstinacy shuts the gates
of mercy, he is the last that would consent to the shedding of any
blood.—For this Tisias, of whose history I have just been hearing
something, I am in a particular manner interested, and to save him, I wish
only I had power equal to my inclination. Is there no chance of convincing
him?”—“He is already convinced.”—“Could his friends do nothing?”—“His
friends have been with him,” said the voice.—This last sentence was spoken
so distinctly, that I knew I could no longer be mistaken; and I was on the
brink of speaking out, without thinking of the consequences that might
occur, when she that had spoken, uttered a faint cry, and dropping on her
knees before Sabinus, said,—“Oh, sir! to us also be merciful, and let us
go hence ere any one behold us!”—“Go in peace, lady,” answered the
Centurion, “and henceforth be prudent as well as kind;” and they went away
from us, and were soon lost to our sight in the windings of the street.
We stood there for some moments in silence, looking towards the place
where they disappeared. “Strange superstition,” said Sabinus; “what
heroism dwells with this madness!—you see how little these men regard
their lives;—nay, even women, and Roman women too—you see how their nature
is changed by it.”—“It is, indeed, a most strange spectacle,” said I; “but
what is to be the end of it, if this spirit become diffused widely among
the people?”—“In truth I know not,” answered the Centurion; “as yet we
have heard of few who had once embraced this faith, renouncing it out of
fear for their lives.”—“And in the days of Nero and Domitian,” said I,
“were not many hundreds of them punished even here in the capital?”—“You
are within the mark,” said he; “and not a few of those who were sent into
exile, because of their Christianity, were, as you may have heard, of no
ordinary condition. Among these there were Flavius Clemens, the Consular,
and his wife, Domitilla; both of whom I have often seen in my youth—both
relations to the family of Vespasian—whom, notwithstanding, all the
splendour of the imperial blood could not save from the common fate of
their sect. But Nerva suffered all of them to live in peace, and recalled
such as were in exile, excepting only Domitilla, whose fate has been
regretted by all men; but I suppose it was not at first judged safe to
recal her, lest any tumult should have been excited in her name, by those
that regretted (and I am sorry to say these were not a few) the wicked
license of which they had been deprived by the death of her tyrannical
kinsman, and the transition of the imperial dignity into another line. She
also with whom we have been speaking, is, I am sure, a Roman lady of
condition; and you may judge of her zeal, when you see it brings her
hither at midnight, to mingle tears and prayers with those of an obscure
Asiatic. Did you observe, that the other female both walked and stood
behind her.”
“I observed all this,” answered I. But little did Sabinus suspect that I
had observed so much more than himself had done. Before parting from him,
I said I should still be gratified with being permitted to see the
prisoner; and although he declined entering himself, he accordingly gave
command that the door of his dungeon should be opened for me, requesting
me, at the same time, to refrain from saying any thing more than was
necessary for the explaining the apparent purpose of my visit,—the
communication, namely, of Trajan’s decree.
The Centurion withdrew to his camp; and the same old spearman with whom we
had conversed at the Porch, carried a torch in his hand, and shewed me the
way into the dungeon.
Between the first door and the second, which appeared to be almost
entirely formed of iron, there intervened a few broad steps of mason-work;
and upon the lowest of these, I stood waiting till he should open the
inner door. Several keys were applied before he discovered the right one;
but at last the heavy door swung away from before him so speedily, that
the air, rushing out of the vault, extinguished the torch; insomuch, that
we had no light excepting that which streamed from an aperture high up in
the wall of the dungeon itself; a feeble ray of star-light alone—for the
moon had, long ere this time, been gone down—which, nevertheless, sufficed
to shew us to the prisoner, although we at first could see nothing of him.
“Soldiers,” said the old man, in a voice of perfect calmness, “for what
reason are you come?”—“We come,” said my companion, “by command of the
Centurion, to inform you of things which we would willingly not have to
tell—To-morrow Trajan opens the Amphitheatre of Vespasian.”—“My comrade,”
said the prisoner, “is it your voice I hear? I knew all this already; and
you know of old that I fear not the face of death.”—“I know well, Tisias,
you fear not death; yet why, when there is no need, should you cast away
life? Think well, I beseech you, and reserve yourself for a better
day.”—“The dawn of that better day, Romans, already begins to open upon my
eyes. I see the east red with the promise of its brightness. Would you
have me tarry in darkness, when I am invited to walk forth into the
light?”—“Your words rejoice me,” answered the spearman; “and I am sure all
will rejoice in hearing that you have at length come to think thus—Trajan
himself will rejoice. You have but to say the word, and you are
free,”—“You mean kindly,” said the old man, rising from his pallet, and
walking towards us as far as his fetters permitted; “but you are much
mistaken—I have but to keep silence, and I am free.”—“Alas! what mean you?
Do you know what you say? You must worship the gods in the morning, else
you die.”—“Evening, and morning, and for ever, I must worship the God that
made heaven and earth. If I bow down to the idols of Trajan, I buy the
life of a day at the price of death everlasting. Tempt me not in your
kindness: I fell once. Great God, preserve me from falling! I have bade
farewell to my friends already. Leave me to spend these few hours by
myself.—Leave me to prepare the flesh for that from which the spirit
shrinks not.” So saying, he extended his hand to the spearman, and the two
old men embraced each other before me.
“Prisoner,” said I, “if there be any thing in which we can serve you,
command our aid. We have already done our duty; if we can also do any
thing that may give ease to your mind now, or comfort to your kindred, you
have but to speak.”—“Sir,” replied he, “I see by the eagle wings on your
helmet, that you are one in authority, and I hear by your voice that you
are young. There is a certain thing, concerning which I had some purpose
to speak to this old brother.”—“Speak with confidence,” said I; “although
I am a Roman, and bear all loyalty to Cæsar, yet this Prætorian helmet is
not mine, and I have but assumed it for the sake of having access to your
prison. I am no soldier of Trajan: Whatever I can do for you without harm
to others, speak, and I will do it. I will swear to you——” “Nay, sir,”
said he, “swear not—mock not the God of heaven, by invoking idol or
demon—I believe your word—but, since you will hear, there is no need why
any other should be witness to my request.”—“I will retire,” said the
other, “and keep watch at the door. I am but a poor spearman, and this
young patrician can do more than I.”—“Be it so,” said the prisoner, a
second time embracing him; “I would not willingly expose you to any
needless danger; and yet I see not what danger there is in all that I have
to ask.”
With this the spearman withdrew; and being left alone with Tisias, I took
his hand, and sitting down beside him on his pallet, shortly explained to
him the circumstances under which I had come thither.
“Young sir,” said he, “I know not what is about the sound of your voice,
and the frankness of your demeanour, that makes me feel confidence enough
to intrust you with a certain thing, which concerns not myself, nor any
hope of mine, for that were little—but the interests of one that is far
dearer to me than I can express, and who, I hope, will live many happy
days upon earth, after I shall have sealed my belief in the message of
God, by blood that has of old been exposed a thousand times to all mortal
perils, for the sake of worthless things. But a very short while ago, and
I might have executed this thing for myself; but weakness overcame me at
the moment of parting.”
“If it be any thing which you would have me convey to any one, say where I
may find the person,” said I, “and be assured I shall deliver it in
safety.”
“Sir,” he proceeded, “I have here with me certain writings, which I have
carried for these twenty years continually in my bosom. Among these, is
one of the sacred books of the faith for which I am to die, and I would
fain have it placed in the hands of one to whom I know it will be dearest
of all for the sake of that which it contains; but, I hope, dear also for
the sake of him that bequeaths it. Will you seek out a certain Roman lady,
and undertake to give into her own hands, in secret, the scroll which I
shall give you?”—“I will do my endeavour,” said I; “and if I cannot find
means to execute your command, I shall destroy the book with my own hands
before I quit Rome—for my stay here is uncertain.”—“If you cannot find
means to do what I ask safely,” he replied, “I do not bid you destroy the
book—_that_ is yours to do with as it shall seem good to you—but I conjure
you to read it before you throw it away. Nay, even as it is, I conjure you
to read it before you seek to give it to her whose name I shall
mention.”—“Old man,” said I, “almost I believe that I already know her
name, and more besides. If it be so that I have conjectured aright, be
assured that all you ask shall be fulfilled to the letter; be assured
also, that I would die with you to-morrow, rather than live to be the
cause or instrument of any evil thing to her that but now visited you in
your dungeon.”—“Alas!” cried the old man, starting up, “lay not this also,
O Lord! upon my head. Let the old bear witness—but let the young be
spared, to serve thee in happier years upon the earth!”—“Be not afraid,”
said I, “if it was Athanasia, no one suspected it but myself; and I have
already told you that I would die rather than bring evil upon her head.”
“Yes,” he answered, after a pause—“it was, indeed, Athanasia. Who is it
but she that would have left the halls of nobles, and the couches of
peace, to breathe at midnight the air of a dungeon, that she might solace
the last moments of a poor man, and, save the bond of Christ, a stranger!
But if you have known her before, and spoken with her before, then surely
she must indeed be safe in your hands. You know where she dwells—that I
myself know not. Here is the scroll, from which that noble maiden has
heard my humble voice essay to expound the words of eternal life. I charge
you to approach her with reverence, and give into her own hands my dying
bequest; yet, as I have said, deliver it not to her till you have yourself
read what it contains.”—“Christian,” said I, placing the writing in my
bosom, “have no fear—I will read your book, and ere two nights have gone
over my head, I shall find means to place it in the hands of Athanasia;
and now, farewell.”—“Nay, not yet for the last time. Will you not come in
the morning, and behold the death of a Christian?”—“Alas!” said I, “what
will it avail that I should witness the shedding of your blood? The Prince
may have reason to regard you as an offender against the state; but I have
spoken with you in your solitude, and know that your heart is noble. Would
to Heaven, that by going thither I could avert your fate!”—“Methinks,
sir,” he replied, “it may be weakness—but yet methinks it would give me
some farther comfort in my death, to know that there was at least one
Roman there, who would not see me die without pity; and besides I must
have you constrain yourself, that you may be able to carry the tidings of
my departure. Her prayers will be with me, but not her eyes. You must tell
Athanasia the manner of my death.”—“For that cause,” said I, “I will
constrain myself, and be present in the Amphitheatre.”—“Then, farewell,”
said he; “——and yet go not. In whatsoever faith you live,—in whatsoever
faith you die, the blessing of an old man and a Christian can do you no
harm.” So saying, the old man stood up, and leaning his hand on my head as
I sat, pronounced over me a blessing which I never shall forget. “The Lord
bless thee—the Lord enlighten thy darkness—the Lord plant his seed in thy
kind heart—the Lord give thee also to die the death of a Christian!”
When he had said so, he sat down again; and I departed greatly oppressed
in spirit, yet feeling, I know not how or why, as I would rather have lost
many merry days, than that dark and sorrowful hour. The soldiers in the
guard-room were so much engaged in their different occupations, that they
heeded me not as, dropping my borrowed habiliments, I stept silently to
the gate; and I was soon out of sight of their flaming watch-fires, and
far from the sounds of their noisy mirth.
_CHAPTER IX._