sincerely, when I saw the pretty creature lifted over the old man’s
threshold in her yellow veil, which I could not help thinking concealed
more sighs, if not more blushes, than are usual on such occasions. But I
promise you the glare of her new torches shall affect me with different
emotions.”
Such talk passed as we were leaving the gardens of Trajan. But as we
advanced into the more peopled region, we found the streets full of
clamour, insomuch that quiet discourse could no longer be carried on. The
evening was one of the most lovely I had ever seen, and the moon was
shedding a soft and yellow light upon the lofty towers and trees, and upon
all that long perspective of pillars and porticos. Yet groups of citizens
were seen running to and fro with torches in their hands; while many more
were stationary in impenetrable crowds, which had the air, as it seemed to
us, of being detained in the expectation of some spectacle. Accordingly we
had not jostled on much farther, ere there arose behind us a peal of what
seemed to me martial music; but my companion, as soon as the sounds
reached him, warned me that a procession of the priests of Cybele must be
at hand.
At last they came quite close to us, and passed on dancing around the
image of the Goddess, and singing the chaunt of Atys. A path being opened
for them by the crowd all along, they made no halt in their progress, but
went on at the same pace, some of them leaping high from the ground as
they dashed their cymbals, and others dancing lowly while they blew the
long Phrygian trumpets and crooked horns of brass. The image itself was
seated in a brazen chariot, to which brazen lions also were fastened, the
whole being borne on the shoulders of some of the assistants. Behind it
came others, beating great hollow drums; and then again more, leaping, and
dancing, and singing, like those who preceded it. They were all clad in
long Asiatic vests, with lofty tiaras; and their countenances, as well as
their voices, intimated sufficiently that they were ministers of the same
order to which the hapless Atys had belonged. Yet nothing but enthusiasm
and triumph could be discovered in their manner of singing that terrible
hymn.
They had not advanced much beyond the spot where we were standing, ere
they stopped of a sudden, and, placing the chariot and image of Cybele
between the pillars of one of the porticos that run out into the street,
began a more solemn species of saltation. When they had finished this
dance also, and the more stately and measured song of supplication with
which it was accompanied, the priests then turned to the multitude, and
called upon all those who reverenced the Didymæan mysteries, to approach
and offer their gifts. Immediately the multitude that were beyond formed
themselves into a close phalanx, quite across the street, and torches
being conveyed into the hands of such as stood in the foremost rank, there
was left in front of the image an open space, brightly illuminated, for
the convenience, as it seemed, of those who might come forward to carry
their offerings to the foot of the statue. And, indeed, it appeared as if
these were not likely to be few in number; for the way being quite blocked
up by those torch-bearers, no one could hope to pass on easily without
giving something, or to pass at all without being observed. Not a few
chariots, therefore, and litters also, having been detained, the persons
seated in these vehicles seemed to be anxious, as soon as possible, to
present their offerings, that the path onward might be cleared to them by
command of the priests. It was necessary, however, as it turned out, that
each person in advancing to the chariot of Cybele, should imitate the
motions practised by the Galli themselves; and this circumstance, as may
be imagined, was far from being the most acceptable part of the ceremony
to some of those who had thus been arrested. A few of the common sort,
both men and women, stepped boldly into the open ring, and with great
appearance of joy went through the needful gesticulations. But, at first,
none of the more lordly tenants of the chariots and litters seemed to be
able to prevail on themselves to follow the example. At length, however,
the impatience even of these dignified persons began to overcome their
reluctance; one and another red-edged gown was seen to float in lofty
undulations across the torch-lighted stage, and when a handful of coin was
heard to ring upon the basin of the Goddess, doubt not the priests
half-cracked their cheeks in blowing horn and trumpet, and clattered upon
their great tambarines as violently as if they had made prize of another
Atys. But how did the Centurion chuckle when he observed that one of the
next chariots was no other than that of Rubellia herself, and perceived
that she and the Stoic were now about to pass onwards like the rest, at
the expense of exhibiting their agility before the multitude.
“Jove in heaven!” cried he, “I thought the garden scene was all in all;
but this is supreme! Behold how the sturdy Thracian tucks up his garment,
and how, nodding to the blows of the tambarine, he already meditates
within himself the appropriate convolutions. And the pretty widow! by the
girdle of Venus, she also is pointing her trim toe, and, look ye! better
and better, do you not see that she has given her veil to the Stoic, that
so she may perform the more expeditely?”
At this moment, some one from behind laid hold of my arm, and whispered my
name. I looked round, and perceived an old man, wrapped in a very large
and deep mantle, the folds of which, however, were so arranged that I
could see very little of his features. Stepping a pace or two backwards,
he beckoned to me with his hand. I hesitated; but his gesture being
repeated, I also entered within the shade of the pillars, and then he,
dropping his mantle on his shoulders, said, “Valerius, do you not remember
me? We met last at the tomb of the Sempronii.”—“At the tomb of the
Sempronii!” said I; and recognized, indeed, the features of the Christian
priest, who had treated me on that eventful evening with so much courtesy;
but my wonder was great to find him in such a situation; for I had seen
him conveyed away between armed guards, and I could not imagine by what
means he, of all others, should have so soon regained his freedom. He
observed my astonishment, and said, in a low voice, “My friend, perhaps I
might have as much reason to be surprised with seeing you here, as you
have in seeing me. But follow me into this house, where we may communicate
what has occurred.”
The hope of perhaps hearing something concerning Athanasia determined me.
I cast a look towards Sabinus, and saw him attentively engaged in
witnessing the performance; and hoping that he might continue to amuse
himself so for a few minutes longer, I permitted the old man to lead me
into the vestibule. The slaves, who were waiting there, seemed to receive
him with much respect. He passed them, saying, “Do not trouble
yourselves—I shall rejoin your master;” and shortly ushered me into a
chamber situated over the hall of entrance, where a grave personage was
reclining by the open window. He perceived not our approach till we had
come close up to his couch, for he was occupied with what was going on
without. When the old man accosted him, and said, “Pontius, I have been
successful. Here is my friend, Caius Valerius,” the stranger rose up, and
saluted me with kindness. “Caius Valerius,” said he, “will pardon me for
being desirous of seeing him here, when he learns that I was one of his
father’s oldest friends, and served with him many campaigns both in
Germany and Britain. I should have been ill pleased had I heard that you
had been in Rome, and departed without my having an opportunity of
retracing, as I now do, the image of my comrade.”
I had to answer not a few questions concerning the situation of my mother
and myself, before I could lead the conversation into the channel I
desired; and at length, indeed, it was not so much any thing I said, as
the readiness of the priest himself, which gave to it that direction; for
the first pause that occurred in the discourse between Pontius and myself,
he filled up, by saying, “And now, will Valerius pardon me for asking, if
he has ever looked again into the narrative of Luke, or whether his
curiosity, in regard to these matters, has been entirely satisfied by the
adventures of one unfortunate night?”
The manner in which Pontius regarded me when the priest said this, left me
no doubt that he was at least favourably inclined to the opinions of the
Christians; so I answered without hesitation, “My curiosity, instead of
being satisfied by what I saw that evening, received new strength; but you
may easily believe that the troubles in which I was involved, and still
more the troubles with which I know others yet to be surrounded, have
hitherto taken away from me both the means and the power of gratifying my
curiosity as I would wish.—But tell me, I pray you, by what means is your
imprisonment at an end?”—“My friend,” replied the priest, “you speak
naturally but rashly. I believe you yourself are the only one of those
surprised in the tower, whose imprisonment has as yet terminated. Yet
hope, good hope is not absent,—above all, I trust there is no reason to
despair concerning that dear child who interfered in your behalf, when a
bold, and, I fear me, a false man, had drawn his weapon to your peril. As
for me, I have but gained the liberty of an hour or two, and long ere dawn
I shall be restored again to my fetters.”—“Your fetters!” said I, “am I to
understand, that, by the connivance of a Roman jailor, you are this night
at liberty to perambulate the streets of Rome?”—“Young man,” answered the
priest, “he is a Christian.”—“Even for his sake,” said I, “the name is
honourable.”
“Valerius,” said he, “I pray you speak not things which may hereafter give
pain to your memory. Already you have read something of the life of ONE,
for whose sake our name is indeed honourable—of Him I trust you shall ere
long both read and think more; but how shall I bless God, that threw my
lot, since captivity it was to be, into a place where such authority was
to have the superintendence of me? Yet more, how shall I be sufficiently
grateful, that She, in all things so delicate, although in nothing
fearful, has shared the same blessing?”
“Heavens,” said I, “what do I hear!—Is Athanasia indeed lodged in the same
prison with yourself, and may she also go abroad thus freely?”
“Think not,” he replied, “that I embrace such freedom for any purposes of
mine own. What I do for the service to which I am bound, think not that
Athanasia will ever desire to do for herself. She abides her time
patiently where the lot hath been cast for her; in due season, if such be
the will of the Lord, she shall regain that in truth, of which this is but
the shadow.”
“God grant our prayer,” said Pontius, “and not ours only, but the prayer
of all that know her, and have heard of this calamity!—Whatever the
exertions of her family and their friends can accomplish, most surely
shall not be awanting. Would that those who are linked to her by ties yet
more sacred had the power, as they have the will, to serve her! Yet Hope
must never be rejected. The investigations of this very night may produce
the true accomplices of Cotilius; and then Trajan will be satisfied that
the Christians stand guiltless of that treason.”
“Alas!” said I, “if this faith be a crime, how can any one hope to follow
it without being continually liable to accidents as unfortunate? In Rome,
at all events, what madness is it thus to tempt the fate which impends
over the discovery of that which it must be so difficult, so impossible to
conceal?”
The aged Priest laid his finger on his lips, and pointed to the window. I
listened, and heard distinctly the shrill voices of the mutilated dancers,
as they brake forth above the choral murmurs of the drums and cymbals, and
I perceived that the bloody legend of Atys was once more the subject of
their song.
The ancient waited till the voices were drowned again in the clamour of
the instruments, and then said to me, “Young man, do you know to what
horrid story these words of theirs refer? Do you know what sounds all
these are designed to imitate? Do you know what terror—what flight—what
blood—what madness are here set forth in honour of a cruel demon—or
rather, I should say, for the gain of these miserable and maimed
hirelings? Do you know all these things, and yet give counsel of flight
and of cowardice to me, upon whose head the hand of Christ’s holy apostle
hath been laid? Read, dear Valerius, read and ponder well.—My prayers, and
the prayers of one that is far purer than me—they are ever with you. But
now since I have introduced you to Pontius, why should I delay here any
longer? He, both for your father’s sake and for your own, and for that of
the faith, (of which you have had some glimpses) will abundantly aid you
in all things. Deal not coldly nor distantly with him. I commit you into
his hands, as a brand to be snatched from the burning.”
Pontius reached forth his hand and grasped mine in token of acquiescence
in all the old man expressed. He, by and by, looking into the street,
said, “These jugglers have now departed to their dens, and the gaping
multitudes have dispersed. But I still see one person walking up and down,
as if expecting somebody; and it seems to me that it is the same,
Valerius, who was in your company.” I perceived that it was indeed
Sabinus, whistling to himself on the bright side of the pavement. I
therefore bade them adieu, saying, “Dear father, when shall I see you
again, and when shall I hear farther of Athanasia?”—The old man pausing
for a moment, said, “To-morrow at noontide be in the Forum, over against
the statue of Numa. You will there find tidings.”
The Centurion plainly intimated that he took it for granted I had been
engaged in something which I wished to keep from his knowledge; but such
affairs made no great impression on him; and after laughing out his laugh,
he bade me farewell by the portico of Licinius.
_CHAPTER III._
In the morning I found my kinsman and his son extremely uneasy, in
consequence of the absence of Xerophrastes, who had not returned during
the night; but Sabinus came in while they were talking to me, and
narrated, without hesitation, all he had seen and heard both in the garden
of Trajan, and at the procession of the Galli. Young Sextus could scarcely
be restrained by respect for his father, from expressing, rather too
openly, his satisfaction in the course which the affairs of the
disappointed lady appeared to be taking; while the orator muttered words
which I thought boded not much of good to the ambitious pedagogue. The
Centurion alone regarded all these things as matters of mere amusement, or
so at least he seemed to regard them; for, as I have already hinted, I was
not without my suspicion, that he was at bottom by no means well pleased
with the contemplation of the future splendour of the Stoic.
However, after many jests had been exchanged between Sextus and the
Centurion concerning this incongruous amour, Licinius said, he was in so
far much relieved by what he had heard, as it satisfied him that both the
widow and Xerophrastes were now otherwise occupied, than in prosecuting
their designs against the niece of his friend Capito.
“I myself,” he continued, “was all yesterday, as well as the day before,
exerting every means in my power for her extrication from this unfortunate
confinement. Cotilius, without question, has indeed been a traitor; but I
believe the Prince himself is, by this time, well inclined to absolve, not
only the young lady, but by far the greater part of those who were taken
with her, from any participation in his traitorous designs. The charge,
however, of which it rests with them alone to exculpate themselves, is one
of a nature so serious, that it is impossible to contemplate without much
anxiety the pain to which so many families—above all, the noble and
excellent Sempronii—may still be exposed. But this day Cotilius will, in
all likelihood, pay the last penalty of _his_ crimes—and then we shall see
what intercession may avail. Would to heaven there were any one who could
obtain access to the deluded lady, and prevail with her to do that which
would be more effectual than I can hope any intercession to prove. This
infatuation—this dream—this madness—is, indeed, a just source of fear; and
yet, why should we suppose it to be already so deeply confirmed in a
breast young, ingenuous, so full, according to report, of every thing
modest and submissive? Surely this affectionate girl cannot be insensible
to the affliction of those who love her.—But you still shake your head,
Valerius; well, it is in our hands to do what we can; as for the issue,
who can hope to divert Trajan from doing that which he believes to be
just? Our best hope is in his justice——”
“And in his clemency,” interrupted the Centurion; “you will scarcely
persuade me that Cæsar can meditate any thing serious concerning a young
beauty, who has been guilty of nothing but a little superstition and
enthusiasm. Nobody will confound her case with that of any obstinate old
fanatic. In the meantime, what avails it to distress ourselves more than
is necessary? Licinius is able to do something; and as for Valerius, the
best thing he can do is to get on horseback, and go with Sextus and myself
to inspect the cohorts that have arrived from Calabria.”
Young Sextus, on all occasions fond of military spectacles, embraced this
proposal; and fain would they both have prevailed on me to accede to it
likewise. I knew, however, that it would be impossible, if I accompanied
them, to keep my appointment with the old Christian; and that I was
resolved on no account to forego. I therefore retired to my chamber, there
to await the approach of the hour; and spent the time till it drew near,
in perusing once more the volume which had been restored to me by
Athanasia. This volume, and the letter which I have before mentioned, I
placed together in my bosom, before I went forth into the city.
I entered the Forum, and found it, as formerly thronged with multitudes of
busy litigants and idle spectators. A greater concourse, indeed, than was
usual, crowded not it only, but the avenues to it, and the neighbouring
streets, by reason of a solemn embassy from the Parthian, which was to
have audience that day in the Senate. But I, for my part, having
discovered the statue of Numa Pompilius, resolved to abide by it, lest,
being mingled in the tumult of the expecting multitudes, I should, by any
mischance, escape the notice of the old man, who, I doubted not, meant to
seek me there in person. The time, however, went on—senator after senator
entered the temple—and, at last, the shouts of the people announced that
Trajan had arrived. And immediately after he had gone in, the pomp of the
embassy appeared, and every eye was fixed upon the long line of slaves,
laden with cloth of gold and rich merchandise, and upon the beautiful
troop of snow-white horses, which pawed the ground, in magnificent
caparisons, before the gate of the Senate-house. But while all were intent
upon the spectacle, I observed a little fair-haired girl standing over
against me, who, after looking at me for some moments, said with great
modesty, “Sir, if you be Caius Valerius, I pray you, follow me.”
I followed her in silence up the hanging stairs, and, in a word, had soon
reached the level of the Capitol, from whence, looking back, I could
perceive the whole array of the forensic multitudes far below me. The
child paused for a moment at the summit, and then, still saying nothing,
conducted me across two magnificent squares, and round about the Temple of
Jupiter, until, at length, she stopped at one of the side doors of an
edifice, which, from the manner in which it was guarded, I already
suspected to be the Mammertine.
The girl knocked, and he who kept the gate, saluting her cheerfully,
allowed us to pass without question into the interior of the prison. My
companion tripped before me along many passages, till we reached at length
a chamber which was arranged in such a manner that I could with difficulty
believe it to belong to a place of punishment.
Here I was soon joined by the old priest, (whose name, if I have not
before mentioned it, was Aurelius Felix,) together with a mild-looking man
of middle age, whom he desired me to salute as the keeper of the prison,
saying, “Here, Valerius, is that Silo, of whom yesterday evening you spake
with so great admiration. But I hope the benevolence of a Christian will
ere long cease to be an object of so much wonder in your eyes.”
“My father,” said the jailer, “methinks you yourself say too much about
such little things. But, in the meantime, let us ask Valerius if he has
heard any thing of what has been determined by Cæsar.”
I answered by telling what I had just heard from Licinius; upon which the
countenance of the old man was not a little lightened; but Silo fixed his
eyes upon the ground, and seemed to regard the matter very seriously. He
said, however, after a pause, “So far, at least, it is well. Let us hope
that the calumnies which have been detected, may turn more and more of
discredit upon those that have gone abroad concerning that which is dearer
to you, my father, and to all your true companions, than any thing of what
men call their own. But, alas! these, after all, are but poor tidings for
our dear young lady.”
“Fear not,” answered Aurelius: “have I not told you already oftentimes,
that strength of heart goes not with bone and sinew, and that my gentle
child is prepared for all things? She also well knows that the servant is
not greater than the master.”
The old man motioned to us to remain where we were, and withdrew. I sate
for some minutes by the side of Silo, who was, indeed, manifestly much
troubled, until at length the same modest little damsel opened the door,
and addressing the jailer as her father, asked leave to conduct me to
Aurelius.
The child led me, therefore, into the adjoining chamber, and tapped gently
at a door on the other side of it. The voice of the old priest bade us
come in, and Athanasia arose with him to receive me. She was dressed in a
white tunic, her hair braided in dark folds upon her forehead; her
countenance was calm, and, but for the paleness of her lips, I should have
said that her gravity scarcely partook of sadness. When, however, we had
exchanged our salutations, it was evident that some effort had been
necessary for this appearance of serenity; for when she spoke to me her
voice trembled in every tone, and, as she stooped to caress my young
guide, who had sate down by her feet, I saw the tear that had been
gathering drop heavily, and lose itself among the bright clusters of the
little damsel’s hair. I took her unresisting hand, and imitated as best I
could the language of consolation. But it seemed as if my poor whispers
only served to increase the misery. She covered her face with her hands,
and sobs and tears were mingled together, and the blood glowed red in her
neck, in the agony of her lamentation.
The old priest was moved at first scarcely less than myself by this
sorrowful sight. Yet the calmness of age deserted him not long, and after
a moment there remained nothing on his countenance but the gravity and
tenderness of compassion. He arose from his seat, and walked quietly
towards the end of the apartment, from which when he returned, after a
brief space, there was an ancient volume open in his hand. And standing
near us, he began to read aloud, in the Greek tongue, words which were
then new, and which have ever since been in a peculiar manner dear to me.
_God is our refuge and strength; a very present help in trouble. Therefore
will not we fear though the earth be removed; though the mountains be
carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be
troubled; though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof._
Athanasia took her hands from her face, and gradually composing herself,
looked through her tears upon the old man as he proceeded.