the holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High._
_God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God shall help her,
and that right early._
_The heathen raged; the kingdoms were moved. He uttered his voice; the
earth melted._
_The Lord of Hosts is with us. The God of Jacob is our refuge._
The blood had mounted in the countenance of Aurelius, ere he reached these
last words. The tears also had been dried up on the pale cheek of
Athanasia; and although her voice was not heard, I saw that her lips moved
fervently along with those of the priest. Even in me, ignorant of their
source, the words of the royal prophet produced I know not what of
buoyance and emotion, and perhaps my lips, too, had involuntarily essayed
to follow them; for when he paused from his reading, the old man turned to
me with a face full of benignity, and said, “Yes, Valerius, it is even so;
Homer, Pindar, Æschylus—these, indeed, can stir the blood; but it is such
poetry as this that alone can sooth in sorrow, and strengthen in the hour
of tribulation. Your vain-glorious Greeks called all men barbarians but
themselves; and yet these words, and thousands not less precious than
these, consoled the afflictions, and ennobled the triumphs of the chosen
race of Israel long, long years, ere ever the boasted melody of Ionian or
Doric verse had been heard of. From this alone, young man, you may judge
what measure of candour inhabits along with the disdain of our proud
enemies:—how fairly, without question, or opportunity of defence, the
charge of barbarity is heaped upon what they are pleased to call our
_superstition_;—how wisely the learned and the powerful of the earth have
combined in this league against the truth which they know not,—of which
they fear or despise the knowledge. Surely the truth is mighty, and the
gates of hell shall not prevail against her.”
“But, alas! my dear father,” said Athanasia, “I fear me this is not the
place, nor the situation, in which Valerius might be most likely to listen
to your words. It may be that his own narrow escape, to say nothing of our
present danger, has rendered him even more cautious than he was before.”
“And who, my dear child,” he replied hastily,—“and who is he that shall
dare to blame caution, or to preach, above all in such things as these,
the rashness that is of folly? Valerius will not believe that we, like the
miserable creatures whose impious songs he heard last night, are studious
only of working upon the fears of the ignorant, and harassing, with dark
and lying dreams, the imaginations of the simple. _Here_ are no wild
stories of blood-thirsty deities, and self-sacrificing maniacs. _Here_ is
that which Socrates vainly sought by all the ingenuity of reason. _Here_
is that of which some faint and mysterious anticipations would appear to
have been shadowed forth in the visions of Plato. _Here_ is that which, as
that Mighty Martyr who died in this very city hath said, innumerable
prophets and kings of the old time desired to see, and yet saw not. Do
nothing rashly, young man; but it is possible, as you yourself well know,
that this may be the last opportunity I shall ever have of speaking with
you; and therefore, before we part, I must needs charge you solemnly, that
henceforth, if your knowledge increase not, the sin shall be upon your
head. I charge you, Valerius, that when you return to your island, you
blot not from your memory the things that you have seen and heard in this
great city of light and of darkness. Examine—judge—ask aid, and aid shall
not be refused you. I take Athanasia to witness, that I have given you the
warning that is needful.”
“Oh, sir!” said Athanasia, “I am sure it shall not be in vain that you
have done so. I am sure Valerius will never forget this hour——”
She gazed in my face, and a tear was again visible, yet on all her
countenance there was no other semblance of passion. The venerable
Aurelius clasping his thin hands together, whispered,—“Would to God that I
were here alone! Shall the axe be laid to the root of the fair young tree
that hath but begun to blossom, when so many old trunks stand around
withered with the lightnings, and sore broken by the winds?—The will of
the Lord be done!”
“Amen!” said Athanasia, taking the old man by the hand, and smiling, I
think, more cheerfully than I had yet seen her—“My dear father, I fear you
yourself, after all, are teaching Valerius to take but a sad farewell of
us.”
“Alas! my child,” he replied, “he must have a hard heart that could look
unmoved on that sweet face in this hour of sadness. But we are in the
hands of a greater than Trajan. If so it please Him, all may yet go well
with us even here upon the earth. You may live to see many happy years
among your kindred—and I, (the old man smiled most serenely,) and for me,
my gray hairs may be laid in bloodless dust. Whatever awaits us, blessed
be the name of the Lord!”
So saying, the old man retired from the chamber, and once more I was left
alone in the presence of Athanasia. I took from my bosom the book and the
letter which I had placed there, and laid them upon her knee. She broke
the seal, and read hastily what Tisias had written, and then concealed the
scroll within her tunic, saying, “Alas! Valerius, little did the brave old
soldier suspect how soon his peril was to be mine—Will you permit me like
him to make you my messenger?—will you seek out my cousin, my sister, and
tell Sempronia in what condition you have found me?—no, not in what you
found—but in what you now see me. Will you go, Valerius, and speak comfort
to my poor friend? Her pity, at least, I am sure is mingled with no angry
thoughts; and yet she only has reason to complain, for her secret thoughts
were not hid from me, and, alas! I concealed mine from her.”
“I have already seen her,” said I, “and you do her no more than justice.
But, indeed, Sempronius himself thinks of you even as gently as his
daughter.”
“I doubt it not, Valerius; but, alas! there are many others besides these;
and I know not what relic of weakness it is, but methinks I could have
borne the worst more easily, had it not been for what I picture to myself
of their resentment. Alas! I am cut off for ever from the memory of my
kindred.” She threw open the lattice, as if that she might inhale the free
air, and her eyes wandered to and fro over all the magnificent prospect
that lay stretched out below us,—the temples and high porticos of the
Forum—the gleaming battlements and long arcades of the Palatine—the baths,
and theatres, and circuses between and the river—Tiber winding away among
fields and groves—and the sky of Italy extending over all things its arch
of splendour. When the trumpets were blown by the gate of the
Senate-house, the sound floated upwards to us as gently as if it had been
borne over the waters. The shouts of the multitude were faintly re-echoed
from the towers and the rocks. The princely pageant shewed like a pomp of
pigmies; spear, and helmet, and eagle glittered together, almost like dews
upon the distant herbage. Athanasia rested her eye once more upon the wide
range of the champaign, where fields and forests were spread out in
interminable succession—away towards the northern region and the visible
mountains. She raised her hand, and said, “Valerius, your home lies far
away yonder. I must give you something which you shall promise me to carry
with you, and preserve in memory—of Rome.”
Before I had time to make any answer, she had taken out of a casket that
stood beside us, a scroll of parchment, bound with a silk ribbon, which
she immediately put into my hands, and—“To-morrow,” said she, “Valerius,
our fate, they tell us, must at length be determined;—if we share the fate
of Tisias, the last gift of Tisias shall be yours. If, however, any mercy
be extended to us, I cannot part with that memorial of a dying martyr. I
must keep to myself the old man’s favourite volume, for it was for me he
had designed it. But I have made a copy of the same book for yourself. I
have written it since I came hither, Valerius, and you must not despise it
because the Mammertine has not furnished the finest of materials. Take
this, Valerius, and take with it my thanks—my prayers. I know you will not
forget my message to my dear sister.—Sextus and she—may many happy days be
theirs—and yours.”
I kissed the sad gift, and placed it in my bosom.
“Valerius,” she said, “dry up your tears. You weep for me because I am a
Christian; forget not that the Roman blood flows in my veins, and think
not that its current is chilled, because I have forsworn the worship of
idol and demon, and am in peril for the service of The Living God.”
“Athanasia!” said I,—“I weep for you, but not for you alone. I ask
nothing—I hope nothing—but I could not bear to part with you thus, and not
to tell you that when I part from you, I bid farewell to all things.
Pardon me—once more pardon me.”
A single flush of crimson passed over her face, and I saw her lips move,
but the syllables died ere they were uttered. She continued for a moment
gazing on me, pale, and trembling; and then at last she fell upon my neck
and wept—not audibly—but I felt her tears.
Athanasia was still folded to my bosom in that strange agony of sorrow and
of confidence, when Silo, the jailer, entered the apartment, abrupt and
breathless.
“Oh, sir!” said he, “your sufferings are mine—but it is necessary that you
should leave us, and on the instant, for the Prefect is already at the
gate, and unquestionably he will examine every part of the prison; and
should you be recognized as the person who was taken in the Mausoleum, you
see plainly to what suspicions it might give rise. Come then, sir, and let
me secure your escape—we shall take care to warn you of whatever occurs,
and we shall send for you, if there be opportunity.”
Athanasia recovered herself almost instantly, when she heard what Silo
said.
“We shall meet again,” said I.
“Once more,” she replied—“at least once more, Valerius.”
And I tore myself away from her; and the jailer having once again
committed me to the guidance of his child, I was in a few moments
conducted to the same postern by which I had been introduced. In a word, I
found myself in the court of the Capitol, at the instant when the Prefect,
with all his attendants, was entering by the main gate of the Mammertine.
_CHAPTER IV._
On reaching home, I was told that Licinius was still absent; and found at
the same time a billet upon the table, which informed me that Sabinus had
carried Sextus with him to his quarters, and that both expected I would
join them there immediately upon my return. I knew not how to refuse
compliance, and yet I could not bear the thought of being so far from the
Capitol, in case of any message being sent to me from the prison. Since I
could do no better, however, I charged Boto to remain in my apartment till
sunset, and bring me, without delay, any letter or messenger that might
arrive in my absence. Should none such appear within that space, I gave
him a note, which I desired him to deliver into the hands of Silo; and
having, as I thought, furnished him with sufficient directions how to
discharge this commission, I myself took the path to the Prætorian Camp,
where I thought it very probable that I might gather some new intelligence
as to Cotilius.
The Prætorian who had accompanied Sabinus at my release from the rustic
tower, recognized me at the gate, and conducted me immediately to the
Centurion, who, to my surprise and displeasure, had directed that I should
be ushered without delay to, not his own apartment, but the general table.
Here I was received most courteously, however, and hoping the feast was
nearly over, took my place near my friend.
Several of those high-fed warriors who had more than once disposed of the
empire, were reclining upon rich couches around the board; and their
effeminate exterior would, perhaps, have made them less formidable in my
eyes, had I not remembered the youth of the great Cæsar, the Parthian
retreat of Antony, and the recent death of Otho.(3) There were present,
besides, a few casual visiters like ourselves; among others, a sleek
Flamen, who reclined on the right hand of the presiding Tribune, and a
little bald Greek, who seemed to think it incumbent upon himself to fill
up every pause in the conversation, by malicious anecdotes or sarcasms, of
which last it was easy to see that the Flamen opposite was a favourite
subject. Neither wit nor impiety, however, could make speedy impression
upon the smooth-faced Flamen, who seemed to think, if one might judge from
his behaviour, that the most acceptable service he could render to the
deities, was to do full and devout justice to the gifts of their
benevolence.
A very animated discussion concerning the review of the newly-arrived
cohorts, (which, I have told you, had taken place that morning by the
river side,) relieved for some time the patient Flamen from the attacks of
this irreverent person, and engaged the zealous participation of those who
had hitherto been the most silent of the company. Sabinus, among the rest,
was ready with a world of remarks upon the equipments, the manœuvres, the
merits, and the demerits of the troops in question; but something he said
was quite at variance with the sentiments of one of his brother
Centurions, who disputed with him rather warmly than successfully for a
few moments, and at last ended with saying,—“But why should I take so much
trouble to discuss the point with you, who, we all know, were thinking of
other matters, and saw not much more of the review than if you had been a
hundred miles off from it?”
The Centurion coloured a little, and laughed, as it seemed to me, with
rather less heartiness than usual; but the disputant pursuing his
advantage, said, “Yes, you may laugh if you will; but do you think we are
all blind, or do you suppose we are not acquainted with certain
particulars? Well, some people dislike the Suburra, but for my part I
agree with Sabinus; I think it is one of the genteelest places in Rome,
and that there are some of the snuggest houses in it too—and if old men
will die, for me, I protest, I don’t see why young men should not succeed
them.” The Centurion laughed again, and natural ruddiness of complexion
was, I thought, scarcely quite sufficient to account for the flush on his
countenance, as he listened to these innuendos. But the master of the
feast cut the matter short, by saying that he had a health to propose, and
that he expected all present should receive it with honour.—“Here,” said
he, “is to the fair lady Rubellia, who is never absent when the Prætorians
turn out, and may all things fair and fortunate attend her now and
hereafter.” I whispered to Sabinus,—“My friend, I think you have really
some reason for blushing. If you had no pity on Xerophrastes, you might at
least have had some for the pretty widow.”
He made no answer to this, and looked, if possible, more confused than
ever; but, just at that moment, a soldier came in, and delivered a billet
to the presiding Tribune, who handed it to Sabinus immediately after he
had read it, and said, loud enough to be heard by all those who sate near
him, “I wish the Prince would give some of this work to these new comers.
But, indeed, I wonder what Lictors are good for now-a-days; but every
thing that these Christians are any way concerned in seems to be a matter
of importance.”
Sabinus, having read the billet, handed it back again to the Tribune, and
said aloud, “_Exit_ Cotilius!—Who would not be of the chorus at the
falling of that curtain?”
The Tribune shrugged his shoulders, whispered something into the ear of
the messenger, and then, dashing more wine into his cup, said, “Rome will
never be a quiet place, nor the Prætorian helmet a comfortable head-piece,
till these barbarians be extirpated.”
The Flamen tossed off a full goblet, and, smiting with his hand upon the
table, said, “There spake a true Roman, and a worshipper of the Gods. I
rejoice to find that there is still some religion in the world; for, what
with skulking Jews on the one hand, and bold blasphemous Cyrenæans on the
other, so help me Jupiter, the general prospect is dark enough!”
“In my opinion,” quoth the bald Greek, putting on an air of some gravity,
“the Jews will have the better of the Cyrenæans. Indeed, I should not be
much surprised to see this Christian superstition supplant every other.”
The Flamen half started from his couch. “You observe, gentlemen,”
proceeded the Greek,—“what great advantage any new superstition has over
any thing of the same sort that is old. We all know, for example, that
Isis and Cybele have for many years past left comparatively few
worshippers to Mars, Apollo,—even to Jupiter. It is lamentable; but it is
true. I have heard that unless on some very great day, a gift is now quite
a rarity upon the altar of any of the true ancient deities of Rome. Egypt
and Mount Ida have done this; and why should not Palestine succeed as well
as either? In the meantime, the enlightened contemplate every different
manifestation of the superstitious principle with equal indifference; and,
I confess to you, I have been a little surprised to perceive how far
Trajan is from imitating their example. But that Chæronæan master of his,
that Plutarch, was always an old woman; and I fear the Prince has not been
able to shake off the impression of his ridiculous stories.”
“Hush!” quoth the master of the day, “if it please you, nothing can be
said here against either Trajan or his friends; and, as for Plutarch, he
was one of the pleasantest fellows that I ever met with.”
Sabinus, desirous of restoring the harmony of the assembly, called
forthwith on a musical senior, to join him in a song. The gentleman
required solicitation, but at last announced his consent to attempt the
female part in the duet of Horace and Lydia. Sabinus, always ready, began
to roar out the tender words of regret and expostulation which the most
elegant of poets has ascribed to himself; and the delicate squeaking
response of our wrinkled Lydia formed an agreeable contrast.
All, in short, were once more in perfect good humour, when another soldier
appeared behind the couch of the president, and handed to him what seemed
to be another billet of the same complexion. He tossed the paper as before
to my friend, who looked very serious as he read it.—“Caius,” he
whispered, “an additional guard is ordered to the Palatine—and the reason
is said to be that the rest of the Christian prisoners are to be examined,
within an hour, by the Emperor himself.”
I had scarcely had a moment to compose myself, when one of the slaves in
attendance signified that a person wished to speak with me in the
anti-chamber. It was Dromo.—“Sir,” said he, “I have no time for
explanation. Silo wishes to see you—I left Boto with him at the
Mammertine.”
As we walked from the camp, Sabinus, with his guard, passed without
noticing me; and I received some explanations which I must give to you
very briefly. Boto, mistrusting his recollection of my instructions, had
requested Dromo to assist him in finding his way to the Mammertine; and
the Cretan had come to be witness of a scene, which, in spite of his
sarcastic disposition, he could not narrate without tokens of sympathy. I
mentioned to you that my faithful slave, in coming with me to Rome, had
indulged the hope of meeting once more with a brother, who many years
before had been carried off from Britain. I smiled when the poor man
expressed confidence that he should find out this ere he had been many
days in the metropolis of the world. But now, in truth, a fortunate
accident had recompensed much ill-regulated search. He had found his
brother, and he had found him in the Mammertine. That very brother was
Silo, to whose kindness I, and one dearer than myself, had been so deeply
indebted. The Cretan, himself a slave and an exile, had partaken in the
feelings of the long-lost brothers, and hastened to bring me from the
camp, that Boto might be spared the pain of immediately parting from Silo.
_CHAPTER V._
I had hurried along the darkening streets, and up the ascent of the
Capitoline, scarce listening to the story of the Cretan. On reaching the
summit, we found the courts about the Temple of Jupiter already occupied
by detachments of foot. I hastened to the Mammertine—and before the
postern opened to admit us, the Prætorian squadron had drawn up at the
great gate. Sabinus beckoned me to him. “Caius,” said he, stooping on his
horse, “would to heaven I had been spared this duty! Cotilius comes forth
this moment, and then we go back to the Palatine; and I fear—I fear we are
to guard thither your Athanasia. If you wish to enter the prison, quicken
your steps.”
We had scarcely entered the inner-court, ere Sabinus also, and about a
score of his Prætorians, rode into it. Silo and Boto were standing
together; and both had already hastened towards me; but the jailer, seeing
the Centurion, was constrained to part from me with one hurried
word:—“Pity me, for I also am most wretched. But you know the way—here,
take this key—hasten to my dear lady, and tell her what commands have
come.”
Alas! I said I to myself, of what tidings am I doomed ever to be the
messenger!—but she was alone; and how could I shrink from any pain that
might perhaps alleviate hers? I took the key, glided along the corridors,
and stood once more at the door of the chamber in which I had parted from
Athanasia. No voice answered to my knock; I repeated it three times, and
then, agitated with indistinct apprehension, hesitated no longer to open
it. No lamp was burning within the chamber, but from without there entered
a wavering glare of deep saffron-coloured light, which shewed me Athanasia
extended on her couch. Its ominous and troubled hue had no power to mar
the image of her sleeping tranquillity. I hung over her for a moment, and
was about to disturb that slumber—perhaps the last slumber of peace and
innocence—when the chamber-walls were visited with a yet deeper glare.
“Caius,” she whispered, as I stepped from beside the couch; “why do you
leave me? stay, Valerius.” I looked back, but her eye-lids were still
closed; the same calm smile was upon her dreaming lips. The light streamed
redder and more red. All in an instant became as quiet without as within.
I approached the window, and saw Cotilius standing in the midst of the
court; Sabinus and Silo near him; the horsemen drawn up on either side,
and a soldier close behind resting upon an unsheathed sword. I saw the
keen blue eye as fierce as ever. I saw that the blood was still fervid in
his cheeks: for the complexion of this man was of the same bold and florid
brightness so uncommon in Italy, which you have seen represented in the
pictures of Sylla, and even the blaze of the torches seemed to strive in
vain to heighten its natural scarlet. The soldier had lifted his sword,
and my eye was fixed, as by fascination, when suddenly a deep voice was
heard amidst the deadly silence—“Cotilius!—look up, Cotilius!”
Aurelius, the Christian priest, standing at an open window, not far
distant from that at which I was placed, stretched forth his fettered hand
as he spake:—“Cotilius! I charge thee, look upon the hand from which the
blessed water of baptism was cast upon thy head. I charge thee, look upon
me, and say, ere yet the blow be given, upon what hope thy thoughts are
fixed?—Is this sword bared against the rebel of Cæsar, or a martyr of
Jesus?—I charge thee, speak; and for thy soul’s sake speak truly.”
A bitter motion of derision passed over his lips, and he nodded, as if
impatiently, to the Prætorian. Instinctively I turned me from the
spectacle, and my eye rested again upon the couch of Athanasia—but not
upon the vision of her tranquillity. The clap with which the corpse fell
upon the stones had, perhaps, reached the sleeping ear, and we know with
what swiftness thoughts chase thoughts in the wilderness of dreams. So it
was that she started at the very moment when the blow was given; and she
whispered—for it was still but a deep whisper—“Spare me, Trajan, Cæsar,
Prince—have pity on my youth—strengthen, strengthen me good Lord!—Fie!
fie! we must not lie to save life. Felix—Valerius—come close to me,
Caius—Fie! let us remember we are Romans—’Tis the trumpet——”