me!—Friends—dear friends—if you have any love, any compassion, I pray you
kiss me once, and bid me farewell kindly, and lay my ashes in the
sepulchre of my fathers—beside the urn of my mother. Fear not that I will
disturb the repose of the place—I shall die in anger against no one, and I
shall have rest at length when I am relieved from this struggle. Pardon,
if in any thing besides I ever gave you pain—remember none of my offences
but this—think of me kindly. And go now, dear friends; kiss my lips in
love, and leave me to bear that which must be borne, since there is no
escape but in lying, and in baseness, and in utter perdition here and
hereafter. May the Lord strengthen his day soon, and may ye all bless the
full light, although now ye are startled by the redness of the dawn!
Farewell—kiss me, Velius—kiss me, Lucius—my aunt also will kiss me.”
They did kiss her, and tears were mingled with their embraces; and they
said no more, but parted from her where she was. Palma himself lifted the
desolate Sempronia from the ground, and he and her father carried her away
senseless, her tresses sweeping the pavement as they moved.
The prisoners were alone. “The moment is come,” said Silo; “now, sir,
prepare yourself to risk every thing where every thing may be gained.”
He did not whisper this, but spake the words boldly; and ere I could
either answer any thing, or form any guess as to his meaning, he had
leaped down from my side, and thrown open another secret spring. Silo
rushed in, and I followed him. It was all done so rapidly, that I scarce
remember how. I cannot, indeed, forget the wild and vacant stare of
Athanasia, the cry which escaped from her lips, nor the fervour with which
she sunk into my embrace. But all the rest is a dream. The door closed
swiftly behind us;—swiftly I ran, bearing the maiden in my arms through
all the long course of those deserted chambers. Door after door flew open
before us. All alike, breathless and speechless, we ran on. We reached the
last of the chambers, the wide and echoing saloon, ere my heart had
recovered from the first palpitation of surprise; and a moment after we
breathed once more the free air of heaven.
“Stop not,” said I, “for the sake of God. Hasten, Silo, it is you that
must guide us.”—“Ha!” said he, “already have they perceived it? Great God!
after all, is it in vain?” We heard shout echoing shout, and the clapping
of doors. “Treachery, treachery! Escape, escape!”—and trumpet and horn
mingled in the clamour of surprise, wrath, terror. “Ride, ride,” screamed
a voice high over all the tumult—“ride this instant—guard every
avenue—search every corner—the wing of Domitian!”
“We are lost,” said Silo;—“we can never reach the gate.”
“To the Temple of Apollo!” said I; “the Priestess will shelter Athanasia.”
“Thank God,” whispered Silo, “there is one chance more.”—And so we began
again to run swiftly, keeping close beneath the shaded wall of the
edifice, and then threading many narrow passages of the hanging gardens of
Adonis, we reached indeed the adjoining court of the Palatine, and found
ourselves, where all was as yet silent and undisturbed, under the sacred
portico. The great gate was barred. Athanasia herself pointed out a
postern, and we stood within the temple.
It was filled as before, (for here the alternations of day and night made
no difference,) with the soft and beautiful radiance proceeding from the
tree of lamps. But the fire on the altar burned high and clear, as if
recently trimmed, and behind its blaze stood one of the ministering
damsels. Her hand held the chain of the censer, and she was swinging it
slowly, while the clouds of fragrant smoke rolled high up above the
flames;—and the near light, and the intervening smoke, and the occupation
with which she was busied, prevented her from at first perceiving what
intrusion had been made on the solitude of the place. Athanasia ran on,
and clasping the knees of the astonished girl with her fettered hands,
began to implore her by the memory of old affection and companionship, and
for the sake of all that was dear to her, to give escape, if escape were
possible—at least to give concealment. The girl had dropped the censer
from her hand, and seemed utterly confused, and unable to guess the
meaning of what she saw and heard. “Lady!” cried Silo, falling by the side
of Athanasia—“Oh, lady! stand not here considering, for this is the very
moment of utmost peril. Behold these fetters—they tell you from what her
flight hath been.”
The girl grasped the hands of Athanasia, and gazed upon the manacles, and
still seemed quite amazed and stupified; and while Silo was renewing his
entreaties, we heard suddenly some one trying to open the postern which
the freedman had fastened behind us. Once and again a violent hand essayed
to undo the bolt, and then all was quiet again. And in a moment after, the
great gate was itself thrown open, and the Priestess entered, followed by
her two brothers, who supported between them the yet faint and weeping
young Sempronia.
In a moment Athanasia had rushed across the temple, and knelt down with
her forehead to the ground, close by where the feet of her haughty
kinswoman were planted.
“Unhappy!” said she; “by what magic do I behold you here? How have you
escaped? and why—oh! why fled hither? Think ye, that here, in the Temple
of Apollo, the priestess of an insulted God can give shelter to blasphemy
flying from the arms of justice? Ha! and he, too, is here!—Outcast! how
durst thou? Speak, unhappy Athanasia—every thing is dark, and I see only
that you have brought hither——”—“Friends, friends—oh! blame them not,”
interrupted the maiden—“Oh! blame them not for venturing all to save me.
Oh! help us, and help speedily—for they search every where, and they may
speedily be here.”
“Here?” cried the priestess—“who, I pray you? Ha! run, fly, bolt the door.
If Cæsar speaks, I answer.”
The ring of arms, and voices of angry men, were heard distinctly
approaching. In a moment more we could hear them talking together beneath
the very portico, and trying, in their turn, to thrust open the massive
valves of the temple. “Who calls there?” cried the Priestess—“Who calls
and knocks? If a suppliant approaches, let him come as a
suppliant.”—“Castor! We are no suppliants,” answered a rough voice:—“Dead
or alive, you must give up our pretty Christians. Come, come, my sly
masters; yield, yield, there is no flying from Cæsar.”
“Peace, insolent!” quoth the Priestess—“peace, and begone! This is the
Temple of Apollo, and ye shall find no Christians here. Turn, rude man,
and dread the arm that guarded Delphos!” And saying so, she at length
lifted up Athanasia, and moved towards the other extremity of the fane,
where, as I had occasion once to tell you before, the private chamber of
the Priestess was situated on the right hand beyond the statue of Apollo.
In passing the image she halted an instant, laid her hand on her eyes, and
kissed its feet, with a murmur of supplication; but that was her only
utterance: and the rest gave none.
She thus led us across the chamber in which, on a former day, I had heard
Athanasia sing; and in like manner, having taken a lamp in her hand, on
through the long passages which conduct towards the receptacle wherein the
Sybilline prophecies are said to be preserved. She opened the door which
she had, on that earlier day, told me led into the repository of those
mysterious scrolls. Two inner doors appeared before us; that to the left
she opened likewise, and we perceived, descending from its threshold, a
dark flight of steps, as if down into the centre of the rock.
“Here,” said she, as she paused, and held the lamp over the gloomy
perspective—“here, at last, I leave you, having already done too much,
whether I think of the God I serve, or of Trajan, or of myself. But for
the blood of kindred not little may be dared. Go with her, since you have
come with her. More I cannot do. Here—take this lamp; the door at the
bottom is fastened only from within; let it fall behind you, and make what
speed you may.”
“One thing,” said Silo, “had better be done ere you depart;” and so, very
adroitly, he, by means of his jailer’s key, relieved both of them from
their fetters. He then whispered, “Go no farther, Valerius; you may rest
assured that no one suspects us.” I saw that he designed to return into
the courts of the Palatine, and so proceed homewards, as if ignorant of
every thing that had occurred. The good freedman had no other course to
pursue, either in duty to himself or to his family. But for me, all my
cares were here. I squeezed by the hand both Lucius and Velius, and both
warmly returned my pressure. The Priestess gave the lamp into my hand, and
the door was shut upon us; and we began, with hearts full of thankfulness,
but not yet composed enough to taste of lightness—with thankfulness
uppermost in our confused thoughts, and with no steady footsteps, to
descend into the unknown abyss.
_CHAPTER VIII._
The steps were abrupt and narrow; but in a few minutes our feet became
accustomed to them, and we descended rapidly. After we had done so for
some time, we found ourselves in a low chamber of oblong form, in the
midst of which an iron stake was fixed into the floor, having chains of
ponderous workmanship attached to its centre, and over against it, a
narrow chair of the same metal, it also immoveable. I asked Athanasia to
repose herself here for a moment; for it was evident that the tumultuous
evening had much worn out her strength. But she said, shuddering, “No, not
here, Valerius; I never saw this place before, but the aspect of it recals
to me fearful stories. Here, wo is me, many a poor wretch has expiated
offences against the dignity of the shrine, and the servants of its Demon.
My father knows, I doubt not, some humble Christian roof, beneath which we
may be safe until the first search be over. Let us breathe at least the
open air, and He who has hitherto helped will not desert us.”
“No, my children,” said Aurelius; “let us not linger here. Christian
roofs, indeed, are known to me, both humble and lofty; but how to know how
far suspicion may already have extended?—or why should we run any needless
risk of bringing others into peril, having by God’s grace escaped
ourselves, when all hope as to this life had been utterly taken away? Let
us quit these foul precincts—let us quit them speedily—but let us not
rashly be seen in the busy city. There is a place known to me, (and
Athanasia also has visited it heretofore,) where safety, I think, may be
expected, and where, if danger do come, it shall find no unnecessary
victim. Let us hasten to the Esquiline.”
“Thanks, father!” said Athanasia; “there no one will seek us: there best
shall our thanksgivings and our prayers be offered. We will rest by the
sepulchre of our friend, and Valerius will go into the city, and procure
what things are needful.”
We began the descent of another flight of steps, beyond the dark chamber.
This terminated at length in a door, the bolts of which being withdrawn,
we found ourselves beneath the sky of night, at the extremity of one of
the wooded walks that skirt the southern base of the Palatine—the remains
of the Assyrian magnificence which had once connected the Golden House of
Nero with the more modest structures of his predecessors. I wrapped
Athanasia in my cloak, and walked beside her in my tunic; and Aurelius
conducted us by many windings, avoiding as far as was possible the glare
of the Suburra, all round about the edge of the city, to the gardens which
hang over the wall by the great Esquiline Gate.
“Is it here,” said I, when he paused—“is it in the midst of this splendour
that you hope to find a safe obscurity?”
“Have patience,” replied the old man; “you are a stranger:—and yet you
speak what I should have heard without surprise from many that have spent
all their days in Rome. Few, indeed, ever think of entering a region which
is almost as extensive as the city itself, and none, I think, are
acquainted with all its labyrinths.”
So saying, the priest led the way into one of the groves. Its trees formed
a dense canopy overhead; nor could we pass without difficulty among the
close-creeping undergrowth. At length we reached the centre of the wide
thicket, and found a small space of soil comparatively bare. The light of
moon and star plunged down there among the surrounding blackness of
boughs, as into some deep well, and shewed the entrance of a natural
grotto, which had, indeed, all the appearance of oblivion and utter
desertedness. “Confess,” said he, “that I did not deceive you. But there
is no hurry now; let me taste once more the water of this forgotten
spring.”
I had not observed a small fountain hard by the mouth of the grotto,
which, in former days, had evidently been much cared for, although now
almost all its surface was covered with leaves. The marble margin shewed
dim with moss; nor had a statue just within the entrance of the grot
escaped this desolation. Damp herbage obscured its recumbent limbs, and
the Parian stone had lost its brightness. “You can scarcely see where the
inscription was,” said Aurelius, “for the letters are filled up or
effaced; but I remember when many admired it, and I can still repeat the
lines—
‘Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs I keep,
And to the murmur of these waters sleep;
Ah! spare my slumbers, gently tread the cave,
And drink in silence, or in silence lave.’(4)
Little did they, who graved this command, conjecture how well it was to be
obeyed. But there should be another inscription.—Ay, here it is,” said he,
stepping on a long flat piece of marble among the weeds. I was advancing
to examine the stone, but the old man stopped me:—“What avails it to spell
out the record? Do you remember the story of Asinius? It was within this
very cavern that the man was butchered;(5) and now you see both he and his
monument are alike sinking into forgetfulness. I believe, however, the
monument itself must bear the blame in part; for I have heard my father
say that he had been told this was a favourite fountain until that
slaughter.”
Athanasia meantime had sat down by the grotto, and was laving her forehead
with the water of the solitary fountain. Aurelius, too, dipped his hands
in the well, and tasted of the water, and then turning to me, he said,
with a grave smile, “Valerius, methinks you are religious in your regard
for the slumbers of the nymph.” He whispered something into the ear of
Athanasia, and received an answer from her in the same tone, ere he
proceeded:—“Draw near—fear not that I shall do any thing rashly—we owe all
things to your love—we know we do; but speak plainly.—Do you indeed desire
to be admitted into the fellowship of the true Faith? Let not the symbol
of regeneration be applied hastily. Without doubt, great were my joy might
my hands be honoured to shed the blessed water of baptism upon the brow of
dear Valerius.”
“Caius,” said Athanasia, “I know God has touched your heart; why should
this be delayed any longer? You have shared the perils of the faithful.
Partake with them in good as in evil. Hesitate no longer; God will perfect
what hath been so begun.”
“Dearest friends!” said I, “if I hesitate, it is only because I doubt if I
am yet worthy. Surely I believe that this is the right faith, and that
there is no God but He whom you worship.”
“Acceptable is humility in the sight of Heaven,” said the priest; and he
rose up from the place where he had been sitting, and began, standing by
the margin of the well, to pour out words of thanksgiving and
supplication, such as I have never heard equalled by any lips but his. The
deep calm voice of the holy man sounded both sweet and awful in the
breathless air of midnight. The tall black trees stood all around, like a
wall, cutting us off from the world, and from the thoughts of the world;
and the moon, steady in the serene sky, seemed to shower down light and
beauty upon nothing in all the wide earth, but that little guarded space
of our seclusion. I stepped into the cool water of the fountain. The old
man stooped over me, and sprinkled the drops upon my forehead, and the
appointed words were repeated. Aurelius kissed my brow, as I came forth
from the water, and Athanasia also drew slowly near, and then hastily she
pressed my forehead with trembling lips.
We sate down together by the lonely well; and we sate in silence, for I
could not be without many thoughts partaken by none but myself, at the
moment when I had thus, in the face of God and man, abjured the faith of
all my fathers, and passed into the communion of the despised and
persecuted Few; nor did either the priest or Athanasia essay to disturb my
meditations.
There were moments (for I must not conceal from you my weakness) in which
I could scarcely help suspecting that I had done something that was wrong.
I thought of my far distant mother; and I could not reflect without pain
upon the feelings with which I had every reason to suppose that she, kind
as she was, and merciful in all things, would have contemplated the scene
which had passed. I thought of my dead parent too; and that was yet more
serious and awful. The conviction of my own mind, in obedience to which I
had acted, relieved me, however, from any feelings of self-reproach.—My
father is dead, said I to myself—He died in ignorance, and he has not been
judged according to the light, which never shone upon him. But now—Oh,
yes! it must be so—the darkness has passed from before his eyes; and, if
the spirits of the departed ever visit, in the dim hours of silence, those
who were dear to them upon this earth, surely his venerable shade stood by
smiling while the forehead of his son was laved with these blessed waters.
Meantime, minutes—hours, perhaps, glided away, while troubled, and solemn,
and tender thoughts thus occupied by turns my bosom. The old priest sate
by me, his arms folded on his breast, gazing upwards upon the spangled
glories of the firmament. Athanasia was on the other side, close by the
statue of the Sleeping Naiad. From time to time, she too would fix her
eyes for a moment upon the untroubled beauty of the moon; and then,
stooping over the brink of the fountain, once and again I saw its calm
dark waters rippled beneath her by the dropping of a tear.
“My children,” said, at length, Aurelius, “methinks more sadness is
amongst us than might suit the remembrance of what Providence has done for
us, since the sun that went down upon fear and sorrow is about to rise
upon many fair hopes. I am old; the world lies behind me, save a remnant I
know not how brief. It lies all before you, and you have a light whereby
to look upon it, which my early day wanted. I trust that soon, very soon,
ye shall both be far from this city—I say both, for I know well, go where
ye may, ye will go together. As for me, my lot is cast here, and here I
will remain. Caius, you must leave us betimes—you must return into the
city, and consult with your friends and hers, how best Athanasia may be
conveyed safely beyond the bounds of Italy. Cæsar, indeed, rules every
where; but at a distance from Rome suspicion is, at least, less watchful;
and there is no precept given by which ye are bound to seek unnecessary
perils.”
“Aurelius,” said I—“dear father, think not but that I have already been
considering all these things anxiously. As soon as I have seen you safely
placed within the retreat of which you have spoken, I shall hasten to
Licinius, my kinsman, who already, indeed, must be feeling no small
anxiety from my absence. I shall speak with him, and with both the
Sempronii. My own errand to the capital I value as nothing, and I shall be
ready on the instant, if Athanasia herself will consent to partake my
voyage.”
“Yes, Caius,” said the father—“this child of God will be your wife, and ye
will both serve the Lord many days, amidst the quiet valleys of your far
off island.—Nay, daughter, do not weep, for these are not common days, and
you must follow without fear the path which God’s providence points out.
Before ye go, my children, I myself shall join your hands in the name of
our God.”
Athanasia heard his words, and saw me gaze upon his face, but she made no
reply, except by the tears which Aurelius rebuked, and a timid, yet grave
and serious pressure, with which she, when he had made an end of speaking,
returned the fervid pressure of my hand upon hers.
“Children,” said the old man, “there is no need of words when hearts are
open—the tears that ye have shed together are the best earnest of the vows
that ye shall ere long, I trust, pronounce. Yet, let no rashness attend
your steps. The dawn must now be near, and Athanasia and I had better
retire into our protecting covert. Valerius will leave us, and return at
eventide. Till then, fasting and praying, we shall give thanks for our
deliverance, and ask the aid that alone is precious for the time that yet
remains.”
I had, fortunately, brought all the way with me the lamp which lighted our
steps down the mysterious staircase, from the shrine of Apollo. Some
little oil still remained within it, and Aurelius soon struck a light,
and, taking it in his hand, began to enter before us the dark cavern, by
the mouth of which we had all this while been sitting. You, perhaps, have
never heard of those strange excavations, the whole extent of which has
probably never been known to any one person, but which appear, indeed, as
the priest had said, to be almost co-extensive with the great city beneath
which they are placed. For what purpose they were at first dug, is a
subject which has long exercised the conjectures of those fond of
penetrating into the origin of things, and the customs of antiquity. By
some it is supposed, that in such caverns, winding far away into unseen
recesses, the first rude inhabitants of Italy, like the Troglodytes of
Upper Egypt and Ethiopia, had fixed their miserable abodes. Others assert,
that they owe their origin merely to the elder builders of the visible
Rome, who, to avoid marring the surface of the earth, were contented to
bring their materials of sand, clay, and stone, from these subterraneous
labyrinths, which so grew with the progress of diligence, and with the
extension of the city itself. Perhaps both conjectures may have some
foundation in truth; but be that as it may, there is no question, that, in
succeeding times, these catacombs had been widened and extended, to serve
as places of burial for the mortal remains of the poor citizens. And now
is it to be wondered at, that here, in regions so obscure and dismal, the
persecuted adherents of the Faith should have frequently sought not only
resting-places for the bodies of their dead, but even shelter for
themselves, amidst the terror of those relentless days? Hither, more than
once, the aged priest said, he had fled to escape the pursuit of his
enemies—here once more he hoped the shield of safety would lie over his
peril—here, at last, by whatever death he should die, his brethren had
promised to lay his bones in the earth, beside Tisias of Antioch, and many
more that, in the bloody times of Nero and Domitian, had already, in the
sight of all that heartless city, merited the crown, and the spotless
robe, and the palm-branch of martyrdom, by patient endurance of the last
insolence of man.