starting from her sleep, gazed wildly around the reddened chamber. The
blast of the trumpet was indeed in her ear—and Valerius hung over her—but
after a moment the cloud of the broken dream passed away, and the maiden
smiled as she extended her hand to me from the couch, and began to gather
up the ringlets that floated all down upon her shoulder. She blushed and
smiled mournfully, and asked me hastily whence I came, and for what
purpose I had come; but before I could answer, the glare that was yet in
the chamber seemed anew to be perplexing her: and she gazed from me to the
red walls, and from them to me again: and then once more the trumpet was
blown, and Athanasia sprung from her couch. I know not in what terms I was
essaying to tell her what was the truth, but I know that ere I had said
many words, she discovered my meaning. For a moment she looked deadly
pale, in spite of all the glare of the torch-beams; but she recovered
herself, and said in a voice that sounded almost as if it came from a
light heart,—“But Caius, I must not go to Cæsar, without having at least a
garland on my head. Stay here, Valerius, and I shall be ready anon—quite
ready.”
It seemed to me as if she were less hasty than she had promised, yet many
minutes elapsed not ere she returned. She plucked a blossom from her hair
as she drew near to me, and said, “Take it: you must not refuse one token
more; this also is a sacred gift. Caius, you must learn never to look upon
it without kissing these red streaks—these blessed streaks of the
Christian flower.”
I took the flower from her hand, and pressed it to my lips; and I
remembered that the very first day I saw Athanasia, she had plucked such
an one, when apart from all the rest, in the gardens of Capito. I told her
what I remembered; and it seemed as if the little circumstance had called
up all the image of peaceful days; for once more sorrowfulness gathered
upon her countenance. If the tear was ready, however, it was not permitted
to drop; and Athanasia returned again to her flower.
“Do you think there are any of them in Britain?” said she; “or do you
think that they would grow there? You must go to my dear uncle, and he
will not deny you, when you tell him that it is for my sake he is to give
you some of his. They call it the Passion-flower—’tis an emblem of an
awful thing. Caius, these purple streaks are like trickling drops; and
here, look ye, they are all round the flower. Is it not very like a bloody
crown upon a pale brow? I will take one of them in my hand, too, Caius;
and methinks I shall not disgrace myself when I look upon it, even though
Trajan should be frowning upon me.”
I had not the heart to interrupt her; but heard silently all she said, and
I thought she said the words quickly and eagerly, as if she feared to be
interrupted.
The old priest came into the chamber while she was yet speaking so, and
said very composedly, “Come, my dear child, our friend has sent again for
us, and the soldiers have been waiting already some space, who are to
convey us to the Palatine. Come, children, we must part for a
moment—perhaps it may be but for a moment—and Valerius may remain here
till we return to him. Here, at least, dear Caius, you shall have the
earliest tidings, and the surest.”
The good man took Athanasia by the hand, and she, smiling now at length
more serenely than ever, said only, “Farewell, then, Caius, for a little
moment!” And so, drawing her veil over her face, she passed away from
before me, giving, I think, more support to the ancient Aurelius than, in
her turn, she received from him. I began to follow them, but the priest
waved his hand as if to forbid me:—the door closed after them, and I was
alone.
_CHAPTER VI._
I know not, my friends, how to proceed with the narrative of what
followed. Thoughts, passions, fears, hopes, succeeding so rapidly, give to
that strange night, when I look back upon it through the vista of years,
the likeness of some incoherent, agonizing dream. Much, without doubt, of
what passed within my own mind I have forgotten; but it seems to me as if
what I saw or heard were still present in the distinctness of reality.
That chamber in the Mammertine! Its walls are before me blazing with the
reflection of torch-light, and then again, all dim and shadowy—the stars
shining feebly upon them from the twilight sky—every thing around lonely
and silent, except the voice of Silo’s little maiden,—bewailing no doubt
in her privacy the departure of Athanasia.
Her father after a little time rejoined me. “Sir,” said he, “all is now
quiet here; will you walk with me towards the Palatine, that we may at
least be near to know what is reported of their proceedings? My brother
will stay here till we return.”
We soon had descended from the Capitoline, passed through the silent
Forum, and gained the brow of the opposite eminence, where, as shortly
before at the Mammertine, all was light and tumult. Every court was
guarded with soldiery, and groups of busy men were passing continually
about the imperial gates and porticos. Silo led me round and round the
buildings, till we reached what seemed an abandoned wing. “Sir,” said he,
“you do not know more familiarly the house in which you were born and
reared, than I do every corner within these wide walls. But I have not
crossed the threshold since the day Cæsar died.—I was the slave of
Domitian, and he gave me my freedom.—He was kind to his household.”
We entered beneath a small portico—and Silo drew a key from his bosom. The
lock, after two or three trials, yielded to its pressure. A large empty
hall received us, the circumference of which was scarcely visible by the
light of the newly-risen moon, streaming down from a cupola.
Another and another sombre chamber we in like manner traversed, till at
length Silo opened one so comparatively light, that I started back,
apprehending we had intruded farther than he intended. A second glance,
however, seemed to indicate that we were still in the region of
desolation, for a statue lay in the midst of the floor, one of its limbs
snapped over, as if it had fallen and been permitted to remain.
“Where are we, Silo?” I whispered, “what means this unnatural light among
so many symptoms of confusion?”
“Sir,” said the freedman, “this is the place in which alone Domitian used
to eat and sleep, and walk about for the last months of his life, when he
was jealous of all men; and he contrived these walls, covered all over
with the shining Ethiopian stone, that no one might be able to approach
him without being discovered. Even when a slave entered, he would start as
if every side of the chamber had been invaded by some host of men; fifty
different reflections of one trembling eunuch. It was, they say, behind
this shattered piece of marble that he ran when he had felt the first
treacherous blow. Yonder in the corner is the couch he slept upon, and he
had always a dagger under his head, and he called to the little page that
was waiting upon him to fetch it from the place; but the scabbard only
remained; and then in came Parthenius and Claudianus, and the gladiator,
and the rest, who soon finished what the cunning Stephanus had begun. Let
us go on;—we have not yet reached the place to which I wished to bring
you—but it is not far off now.”
With this Silo walked to the end of the melancholy chamber, and pressing
upon a secret spring, where no door was apparent, opened the way into a
room, darker and smaller than any of those through which we had come. He
then said to me, “Now, sir, you must not venture upon one whisper more—you
touch on the very heart of Domitian’s privacy. It is possible that the
place I have been leading you to may have been shut up—it may exist no
longer; but the state in which all things are found here makes me think it
more likely that Trajan has never been master of its secret. And in that
case, we shall be able both to see and to hear, without being either seen
or heard, exactly as Domitian used to do, when there was any council held
either in the Mars or the Apollo.”
I started at the boldness of the project which now, for the first time, I
understood; but Silo laid his finger on his lip again,—cautiously lifted
up a piece of the dark-red cloth with which this chamber was hung,—and
essayed another spring in the pannelling beneath. Total darkness appeared
to be beyond; but the jailer motioning to me to remain for a moment where
I was, and to keep up the hanging, glided boldly into the recess. I
wondered how he should tread so lightly, that I could not perceive the
least echo; but this no longer surprised me, when I had the sign to
follow. The floor felt beneath my foot as if it were stuffed like a
pillow; and, after I had dropped the hanging, every thing was totally
dark, as it had at first appeared to me, except only at certain points,
separate and aloft, which let in gleams of light, manifestly artificial.
Silo, taking hold of me by the hand, conducted me up some steps towards
the nearest of these tiny apertures; and, as I approached it, I heard
distinctly the voices of persons talking together in the room beyond. I
did not draw my breath, you may well believe, with much boldness; but my
eye was soon fixed at one of the crevices, and, after the first dazzle was
over, I saw clearly. Silo took his station by my side, gazing through
another of these loop-holes, which, that you may understand every thing,
were evidently quite concealed among the rich carved-work of an ivory
cornice.
The chamber was lighted by three tall candelabra of silver, close beside
one of which was placed a long table covered with an infinity of scrolls
and tablets. One person, who had his back turned towards us, was writing,
and two others, in one of whom I instantly recognized the Emperor, were
walking up and down on the other side.
“No, Palma,” said Trajan, for it was that old favourite whom he
addressed—“I have made up my mind as to this matter. I shall never permit
any curious inquisition as to private opinion. Every man has a right,
without question, to think—to believe—exactly what pleases him; and I
shall concede as much in favour of every woman, Palma, if you will have it
so. But it is totally a different affair, when the fact, no matter how, is
forced upon my knowledge, that a subject, no matter who or what he be—a
subject of the Roman empire, refuses to comply with the first, the
elemental, and the most essential of the laws. The man—aye or the
woman—that confesses in my presence contempt for the deities whom the
commonwealth acknowledges in every step of its procedure—that person is a
criminal; and I cannot dismiss him unpunished, without injuring the
commonwealth by the display of weakness in its chief. As for these poor
fanatics themselves, it is the penalty of my station that I must control
my feelings.”
“But you are satisfied, my lord,” said Palma, “that these people are quite
innocent as to Cotilius’s designs; and as it was upon that suspicion they
were apprehended, perhaps it may be possible——”
“Yes, Palma,” interrupted the Prince; “quite possible and quite easy,
provided they will condescend to save themselves by the most trivial
acknowledgment of the sort which, I repeat to you, I do and must consider
as absolutely necessary. And women too—and girls forsooth—I suppose you
would have me wait till the very urchins on the street were gathering into
knots to discuss the nature of the Gods.—Do you remember what Plato
says?”—
“No, my lord, I do not know to what you refer.”
“Why, Plato says that nobody can ever understand any thing accurately
about the Deity, and that, if he could, he would have no right to
communicate his discoveries to others; the passage is in the Timæus, and
Tully has translated it besides. And is it to be endured that these modest
fanatics are to do every hour what the Platos and the Ciceros spoke of in
such terms as these? I think you carry your tolerance a little farther
than might have been expected from a disciple of the Academy.”
“I despise them, my lord, as much as yourself; but, to tell you the truth,
it is this young lady that moves me to speak thus—and I crave your pardon,
if I have spoken with too much freedom.—Her father was one of the best
soldiers Titus had.”
“The more is the pity, Palma. Have you ever seen the girl yourself? Did
you give orders that she should be brought hither? I have not the least
objection that you should have half an hour, or an hour if you will, to
talk with her quietly; perhaps your eloquence may have the effect we
desire.”
“I doubt it, my lord, I greatly doubt it,” he replied; “but, indeed, I
know not whether she be yet here—Did you not send to the Mammertine?”
The man writing at the table, to whom this interrogation was addressed,
said, “I believe, sir, both this lady and the old man that was in the same
prison are now in attendance.” And upon this Trajan and Palma retired
together towards the farther end of the apartment, where they conversed
for some minutes in a tone so low, that I could not understand any thing
of what was said. Trajan at length turned from his favourite with an air,
as I thought, of some little displeasure, and said aloud, coming back into
the middle of the room,—“I know it is so; but what is that to the affair
in hand? I am very sorry for the Sempronii, but I doubt if even they would
be so unreasonable as you are.”
“Will you not see the poor girl yourself, Cæsar?”
“You do not need to be told, that my seeing her would only make it more
difficult for me to do that, which, seeing or not seeing her, I know to be
my duty. Do you accept of my proposal? Are you willing to try the effect
of your own persuasion? I promise you, if you succeed, I shall rejoice not
less heartily than yourself; but it is rather too much to imagine that I
am personally to interfere about such an affair as this—an affair which,
the more I think of it, seems to me to be the more perfectly contemptible.
Nay, do not suppose it is this poor girl I am talking of—I mean the whole
of this Jewish, this Christian affair, which does indeed appear to me to
be the most bare-faced absurdity, that ever was permitted to disturb the
tranquillity of the empire. A mean and savage nation have but just
suffered the penalty of obstinacy and treachery alike unequalled, and from
them—from the scattered embers of this extinguished fire, we are to allow
a new flame to be kindled—ay, and that in the very centre of Rome. I tell
you, that if my own hand were to be scorched in the cause, I would
disperse this combustion to the winds of heaven; I tell you, that I stand
here Cæsar, and that I would rather be chained to the oar, than suffer,
while the power to prevent it is mine, the tiniest speck to be thrown upon
the Roman majesty. By all the Gods, Palma, it is enough to make a man sick
to think of the madness that is in this world, and of the iron arguments
by which we are compelled to keep those from harming us, that at first
sight of them excite no feeling but our pity. But I am weary of these very
names of Palestine—Jew—Christian. Go to this foolish girl, and try what
you can make of her; I give you fair warning—no breeders of young
Christians here.”
_CHAPTER VII._
Cornelius Palma, after the Prince retired, was apparently for some space
busied with his reflections. He then talked in a whispering manner with
the secretary, and moved towards an extremity of the chamber. But the
moment Silo perceived this, he plucked my sleeve, and drew me to the other
end of our closet, where, as I have told you, the light had admittance in
a similar manner. Here another of the imperial apartments was visible in
equal distinctness; and in it appeared Athanasia and her friend, as
waiting now at length in entire composure the moment when they should be
summoned.
Palma entering, both rose, and he, returning their salutation, remained
before them for a moment in silence, his eyes fixed on Athanasia. It was
to Aurelius, nevertheless, that his first words were addressed:—“From what
has been reported of your behaviour at the execution of Cotilius, I fear
there is nothing to be gained by speaking to _you_, concerning the only
means by which your own safety can yet be secured. You are obstinate, old
man, in your superstition?”—“Noble Palma,” said the priest, “contempt is
the only thing I fear from men. But I thank my God, that it is the only
thing I have it in my power to avoid.”—“I will not argue with you,”
answered Palma, pointing to a door near him:—“It was not with any purpose
of bending you, that I undertook this painful office. I desire to speak in
freedom with one whose case is, I trust, less hopeless.”
The old man, pointing to his fetters, said meekly, “Let them guard me
whither it pleases you.”
“Sir,” said Athanasia, “I pray you let Aurelius remain; imagine not that I
shall either hear or answer less freely because of my friend’s presence.”
“He will, at least, retire to the other end of the chamber,” said
Palma—“and interfere no farther.”
The priest drew back;—Athanasia, on her part, seeing that Palma hesitated,
and seemed at a loss how to begin, said to him in a tone of modest
composure:—“Noble sir, if your purpose be indeed as kind as I think it is,
I pray you spare me at least the pain that is needless, and spare yourself
what I am sure is painful to you. You see my youth and my sex, and it is
not unnatural for you to think as you do; but know that my faith is fixed,
and that I hope I shall not be deserted, when I strive even at the last
moment to do it no dishonour.”
“This gray beard,” said Palma, “has made you, then, thoroughly a
Christian?”
“I would it were so,” she answered—“I would to God it were so!”
“Lady,” resumed Palma, “we have knowledge both of your father’s high
character, and of your own amiable dispositions. If you persist in this
manner, you will give grief to Cæsar; and as for your family, have you yet
seriously considered into what misery they must be plunged?”
“Sir,” she replied, “this is cruel kindness. I have considered all
things.”
“Young maiden,” continued Palma, “the touch of the physician’s knife is
painful, yet his hand must not falter. But I have sent for those, who, I
hope, may speak more effectually.”
The Senator turned from the pedestal on which he had been leaning, and
walked to the door over against where Aurelius was sitting: and after a
moment had elapsed, there entered, even as I had anticipated, both her
uncles, Lucius and Velius. Behind them came, wrapped in her consecrated
veil, the Priestess of Apollo; and last of all, gazing wildly around, her
apparel disordered, the friend of her youth, the sister of her bosom,—she
to whom in all things, save one, Athanasia’s heart had ever been laid
open. The two Patricians advanced, deeply dejected, towards the place
where Athanasia stood waiting their approach. The stately Priestess,
walking yet more slowly, lifted the veil from her face, which was pale and
calm as marble. But when the youthful companion at last rested her eye
upon her friend, and the fettered hands clasped together on that bosom,
she rushed past them all, and was folded in a cold embrace; for though
Athanasia pressed Sempronia to her bosom, I saw also that she trembled
from head to foot, and that her eyes were riveted on those who approached
with seriousness more terrible than the passion of young sympathy.
“Athanasia,” said Lucius, taking her by the hand, “look not upon us thus;
we come as to a daughter.”
“Dearest,” said old Velius, “listen to thy true friends. Do you put more
faith in the words of strangers than in the blood of kindred—the affection
of your father’s brothers—the guardians of his dear orphan?”
“Wo is me!” said Athanasia—“O God, strengthen me! Why, oh, why am I forced
to wound these kind hearts! Have pity upon me, have pity upon me—you know
not what you speak of, else you would all be silent.”
“Weep,” said the Priestess; “weep, and weep largely. There is yet time to
repent. Abjure this madness; let the last of your tears be shed upon the
altars of your paternal Gods, and they also will be merciful. Nay, tremble
not when you hear my voice, Athanasia. I love you as tenderly as the rest,
and if you have deceived me also, I have long since pardoned.”
The Priestess kissed her forehead; and she bowed her head, weeping at
length audibly. But Athanasia speedily recovered herself, and gently
removing the hands of Sempronia, stood erect again in the midst.
“Dear friends,” said she, “the moments you have to be with me are
numbered; what avails it that they should be spent in words that can have
no effect? I have been baptized in the name of the one true God—I have
partaken of the symbols of the Christian mystery—and I have no more power
to bring myself out of this peril, than he that stands in the front
rank—without sword or buckler—deprived of all things but his honour.”
“Athanasia!” said Velius, “alas! my dear girl, what madness is this? Do
you hold yourself wiser than all the wise men, and all the good, and all
the great men that have ever lived in Rome? Do you deem yourself able to
penetrate mysteries from which all the sages of the earth have retreated
with humility? Consider with yourself—remember the modesty that might be
becoming in your tender years—and, I must speak the truth, your
ignorance.”
“Oh, sir!” she answered, “believe not that I have been brought into this
place, because of my being puffed up with emptiness of conceit. I know
well that I am a poor, young, unlearned creature; but God gives not
according to our deserts; and because I am poor and ignorant, must I
therefore reject the promise of his riches, and the great light that has
been manifested to me,—which, would to God it had also been to you,
despite the perils which a dark world has thrown around it.”
“O Athanasia!” said young Sempronia, “I know the secrets of your heart,
although you have kept from me some of them. Think, dear sister, of all
the love that we bear to you—and, oh! think of Valerius.”
“The more, then, is the sacrifice!” said Athanasia. “Caius Valerius also
is a Christian—at least I hope in God he will soon be sealed into our
brotherhood.”
“Amen! amen!” said Aurelius.
The Priestess turned round when he uttered this, and observing that he
also was fettered, “Blasphemer!” cried she, “behold the end of your
frenzy. Your eyes are dim, your clay is already yearning, it may be, to be
sprinkled into ashes; but behold your victim. Ye Gods that see all things,
have mercy upon the errors of deceived, ensnared, murdered youth! Hoary
Apostate! feeble though you be, may strength be given to you in anger,
that you may taste the full struggle and the true agony. May you be strong
to wrestle, that you may fall slowly, and feel your fall! Would to the
Gods, just and merciful, that you might struggle and fall alone!”
“Rash woman,” said the manacled Saint, “most surely your last wish is
mine. But why is it that you have come hither with cruel words, to
imbitter equally the last moments of a life that is dear to you, and a
life that you despise? You speak of ignorance and of deceit. Little know
ye who are the deceived. We are the servants of the living God, whose
light will soon shine abroad among the nations, and quench glimmering
tapers, fashioned with the hands of men, with which, hitherto, ye have sat
contented amidst darkness. Cæsar may bind and slay—but think ye that the
spirit is his to do with it what he will? Think ye that chains and
dungeons, and the sword of man can alter the course of things that are to
be, or shake from its purpose the will of Him, in whom, blind and
ignorant, ye refuse to behold the image of the Maker of all—shutting eyes,
and ears, and your proud hearts; and blaspheming against the God of
heaven, whose glory ye ascribe to stocks and stones, and to the ghosts of
wicked and bloody tyrants, long since mouldered into dust,—and to the sun,
and the moon, and the stars of the sky, which God set there to rule the
day and the night, even as he lets loose his winds to scatter the leaves
of the forest, and to lift up the waves of the great deep?—Leave us, I
beseech you.—The young and the old are alike steadfast, for God is our
strength, and he bestows it on them that ask for it in the name of the
Redeemer.”
“Peace, thou accursed!” said the Priestess; “I serve the altar, and came
not hither to hear the Gods of heaven and earth insulted by the lips of
hardened impiety.—Athanasia! will you go with us, or will you stay here,
and partake the fate of this madman?”