THE PAGAN SACRIFICE.
There is even now--when the sweeping hand of ages has levelled with
the earth so many of the things which in the times we speak of were in
their splendour--there is even now at the foot of Pincianus a deep,
shady grove of tall trees, amid the stems of which the treacherous
sunshine of the Roman spring pours its mellow light with a peculiar
charm. This, however, is but a small vestige of the magnificent wood
that at one period covered the side of the hill, and swept over the
undulating country at its base, a wood consisting solely of high
upright trees, springing from a green and luxuriant turf, which their
own shadow kept cool and verdant. A bright stream, long since licked
up by the burning sun, then meandered round the foot of the hill full
of delicious water, brawling sportively with the stones which formed
its bed; and by the side thereof, every here and there an open space
appeared, as if left by the taste of some skilful planter, either for
wanderers through that enchanted scene to pause upon and gaze on the
cool wave, or for the gay and happy to meet in and prolong the hours
with feast and revelry.
At either end of the wood, nearly a mile apart from each other, the
one being situated half way up the slope, the other at its base, were
two villages, which, though not remote from Rome, had, from various
accidental circumstances, maintained in all ages much less
communication than might have been expected with the great city, and
which preserved with peculiar tenacity those old manners and customs
which the secluded and the rustic adhere to with such fond affection.
In vain had the customs of the city changed--the villagers of
Pincianus changed not with Rome. In vain had empire succeeded
republic, and effeminacy and luxury flowed in with demoralizing
power--the villagers retained their old simplicity, and, when they
carried their produce to the town, but shrugged their shoulders at the
strange and women-like men that they beheld. In vain even had the
emperors put down by severe laws the poetical religion of their
forefathers, and established a purer faith in its place--the villagers
still loved their old deities and served their old gods. Even more,
they resisted the words of truth when the ministers of truth visited
them in person; and driving forth from among them the preachers of the
Gospel, they returned to their old rites with persevering zeal.
Severe and more severe measures had been employed to put down
paganism. Temples had been changed into churches; altars had been
overthrown; the blood of the priest had been mingled with the blood of
the victim, and the lives of the worshippers had been taken in the
very act of sacrifice: but still the villagers adhered to their old
faith, and through nearly a hundred years of persecution and suffering
had retained, either openly or secretly, their reverence for the
things their fathers had revered before them.
A season of comparative tranquillity had succeeded; and though the
persecution of the idolaters had been cruel and virulent during the
first years of the reigns of Theodosius and Valentinian, yet for the
last lustre this rigour had been relaxed; and though still obliged to
conceal, as far as possible, the rites and ceremonies which they
practised, those who persevered in heathenism had suffered no very
severe inflictions.
It was in one of those open spots, by the side of the stream which we
have already described, that on a bright May day were assembled a
multitude of people, clothed in white garments, and met together,
apparently, for the purpose of offering sacrifice. The turf, out of
which no tree grew, covered a space of nearly a hundred yards in
diameter; but over a great part thereof hung the wide-spreading
branches of the large oaks around, giving shade to the sylvan
amphitheatre thus formed on the banks of the little river. The waters
flowed on clear and sparkling; the murmurs of a distant fall filled
the air with music; bright sunshine was pouring over all the scene and
dancing through the leaves upon the turf below; flowers crowned the
heads of all the assembly, and gemmed the verdant carpet on which they
trod. Everything was smiling and beautiful; and, if the mind could be
divested of the remembrance of the dark and sinful object for which
the idolaters met, the whole scene had in it something so graceful, so
poetical, so exciting, that one might well gaze with raised
enthusiasm, even if one took no part in the rite which was about to be
performed.
With such feelings stood Ammian Flavius, a little apart from the rest,
leaning against one of the trees, at a little distance from which two
servants held his horse. Four years had now passed since the period
which the reader first beheld him; and while Theodore had expanded
into a handsome and powerful man, Ammian, from the wild and beautiful
boy which we at first portrayed, had grown up into a tall, graceful,
manly youth. His fine features, his noble air, and his symmetrical
form, might well attract attention; and many were the eyes that turned
upon him among those who met to offer on that day a sacrifice to their
false deity. They gazed, however, without any mingling of
apprehension; for it was not uncommon for some of the wild youths of
the great city to steal out in secret to behold those rites to which
their concealment gave an additional charm.
The day had waned considerably, and the sun was approaching the west.
The flamen of Jupiter, as he called himself, though the office had
been long abolished, stood in his purple robe beside a small altar
raised in the midst, and strewed with flowers, and a number of gay
laughing boys led along, with sportive glee, a milk-white bull, its
neck wreathed with garlands, and its broad brow crowned with flowers.
Long nurtured for the purpose of the sacrifice, and rendered familiar
with the hands of men, which had never yet been raised against it with
violence, the noble beast, unconscious of its coming fate, walked
calmly in the midst, suffering itself to be led up to the altar with
an untightened rope. Beside the priest stood the cultrarius, leaning
on his axe, and all pressed near to behold the ceremony of immolation.
The invocation and the prayer had been pronounced; and the cultrarius,
turning to the priest, demanded in the accustomed form, "Shall I do
it?"
"Do it!" replied the priest, and swinging the axe above his head, the
stout peasant who performed that office laid the monarch of the herd,
at a single blow, dead at the foot of the altar. The priest was
hastening to apply the knife, when Ammian, hurrying forward,
exclaimed, "I hear coming horses, my friends, be upon your guard."
All looked up and listened, and some thought that they also heard the
sounds; but if it was so, those sounds ceased almost instantly, and
the ceremony proceeded, while Ammian, with his colour slightly raised
at the mistake he appeared to have made, retired again to the tree by
which he had formerly stood, and continued to gaze upon the
proceedings of the rest.
Before many minutes were over, however, a troop of Roman horsemen
appeared on the other side of the stream; dashed through its shallow
waters; and with their spears and swords carried slaughter and
confusion among the heathen worshippers. The priest was at once struck
down; but the cultrarius defended himself with his axe for some time,
and was at length slain by a javelin thrown from some distance.
Resistance was also made by several others, who had arms concealed
upon their persons; and if the whole body had taken the same
precaution, they might in all probability have resisted successfully
the force sent against them, which did not consist of more than fifty
or sixty men.
In the midst of the strife, five of the soldiers, leaving the others
to pursue their attack upon the heathen, cut straight across and
surrounded Ammian; who, seeing that no words were spoken, but death
inflicted indiscriminately upon every one, drew his sword, and
determined to sell his life dearly. He was overpowered, however,
before he could offer any effectual resistance, by one of the Romans
springing from behind the tree and clinging to his right arm. In
another moment he found himself tied with cords, and dragged away into
the midst of the confusion, where the soldiers were still, with
merciless activity, slaughtering the unhappy wretches whom they had
detected in celebrating the forbidden rites.
Without preserving any order themselves, the troopers pursued wherever
they saw a victim to strike; and the villagers, taking advantage of
the trees, in many instances kept their cruel persecutors at bay for
some time; while the shifting of the horses here and there; the
rushing of the crowd of victims, now driven into a body together, now
scattering wide to avoid their pursuers; the efforts of resistance;
the gestures of supplication; the shrieks of the women and children;
the groans of the dying, formed altogether a scene of agony and horror
such as the eyes of Ammian had never before beheld.
In the midst of it all, however, he suddenly perceived a horseman
clothed in the wild arms of the barbarians mingling with the Roman
soldiers. Another and another appeared as if by magic, urging their
swift horses through the trees on all sides. The Romans, accustomed
to see the barbarians in the emperor's service, seemed to look
upon all, except the villagers, as their friends, and took no
notice of those who appeared among them, till the number became
formidable--equalled--surpassed their own; and then he who appeared to
be the commander of the imperial troop suddenly drew up his horse and
gazed upon the strangers.
"The barbarian is striking a Roman," he exclaimed. "What is the
meaning of this? Fellow, art thou mad?"
The only answer which he received from the man to whom he shouted
forth those hurried questions was a javelin cast by an unerring hand,
which smote him between the eyes, and cast him lifeless beneath the
horse's feet.
All was now confusion tenfold confused. The well-armed barbarians,
hand to hand and man to man, drove back the Roman soldiers. The
villagers, mad with rage against their oppressors, and inspired with
hope by the unexpected aid they had received, became in turn the
assailants, and following the Huns among their retreating adversaries,
armed with the knives which they bore upon their own persons, or the
swords which they caught up from the dead or dying, cut the sinews of
the Roman horses, or gave the stroke of death to any one who fell
wounded from his charger.
For a short time the imperial troops resisted; but they were soon
driven across the stream into the open country. Ammian, whom they had
placed on his horse, was led along with them, his arms tied as they
were behind him, and unable to resist. But at length the rout of the
Romans became complete, and they fled precipitately towards the city;
while a small body of the Huns, urging their horses into double speed,
dashed with a furious charge into the midst of the fugitives; reached
the point where Ammian was borne along, slew the man who led his
horse, and, seizing his bridle-rein, hurried him away in the opposite
direction, leaving the Romans to pursue their flight without further
interruption.
So rapidly did the barbarians urge their horses on, that Ammian had
neither time nor breath to ask any questions. Only once they paused,
as, pursuing their course at full speed, they took their way towards
the ancient Umbria; and that was when they perceived that the adverse
force, recovered from its terror, had detached a small body to watch
their motions. Then, wheeling so suddenly upon it that retreat was
impossible, they left not one of its number to bear back the tidings
which it had been sent to obtain. Soon after, the sun set, and with a
short twilight night came on. The star of evening, however, shone fair
over the whole world, and light sufficient lingered in the skies to
show a small lake spreading out across their path. At the spot where
the road, taking a direction on either side of the lake, divided into
two, stood a barbarian dressed and armed like the rest, and apparently
waiting for them. A few eager and quick words were spoken in a tongue
which Ammian did not understand; but he guessed, by seeing the man
point down to one side of the lake with his spear, and by various
other gesticulations used on both sides, that he was directing the
Huns to some body of their comrades; and he ventured to ask whither
they were about to carry him.
"Fear not," answered the man who led his horse, in very good Latin,
while another took advantage of the pause to cut the cords that bound
his hands--"fear not, you are with friends, and you are saved from
death: we bear you to a place of safety, where you will hear more."
Thus saying, he took the road to which the other man had pointed, and
galloped on at the same quick pace as before. The moon was now rising
over the neighbouring hills; and at the distance of about a mile they
came to a number of tents, pitched in a meadow by the bank of the
lake. Several large flat boats were gathered together along the shore,
and eight or nine armed men were watching on the verge of the lake;
while round two or three fires, lighted at a short distance from the
tents, were seen a multitude of barbarians revelling as usual over
their evening meal.
The sound of the coming horses had no effect upon the Huns; but seemed
to call the attention of the persons, whosoever they were, within the
tents; for the hangings of two of them were pushed back as Ammian and
his conductors approached, and several people in the garb of Romans
came forth. By the moonlight the youth could not distinguish their
features, but there was more than one woman of the party; and as he
sprang from his horse with feelings of joy mingled with doubt, he was
clasped to the bosom of his mother, Flavia, and then pressed in the
arms of Theodore. Eudochia, Ildica, too, were there; and in a few
brief words he related to them all that had happened to him. At
length, shading his eyes from the light, he was led into the tent, and
found the whole of Flavia's household assembled as it had left
Dalmatia, with the exception of those whom the stern monarch of the
grave had taken as his allotted tribute during four years of
wandering.
"What is all this? how is all this?" exclaimed the youth, gazing
round: "are we about once more to try our fortunes on the wide world?"
"Even so, Ammian," answered Theodore: "circumstances compel us to it,
even when we fancied we were united once more, to dwell in peace
together for the rest of our days."
"Well, I care not," cried Ammian: "one land is the same to me as
another; and wherever liberty is, we may find or found a Rome for
ourselves. But hearken, Theodore! Listen to me, my dear brother! In
all our past wanderings some one of us has been separated from those
who were as dear to his heart as a part of itself. There wants some
magic link between us to bind us all together; so that, wherever we
go, we may, as slaves to our affections, be chained inseparably to one
another. I have a bond to propose, Theodore, which, though it be
formed of flowers, will yet prove as strong as adamant. You are to be
united to my sister by the dearest ties; why should I not be united to
yours by the same. Thus shall we become all, indeed, one family. What
say you, my beloved Eudochia? But you have said already, dear one," he
added, casting his arms round her, "and it is needless to ask you.
Theodore, Eudochia is mine--my promised bride! What say you, my
brother?"
"Nothing in opposition, Ammian," answered Theodore, with a smile;
"nothing, but that you are very young, and somewhat wild, my brother!"
"Out upon such buts!" cried Ammian, laughing. "I am young; but people
would laugh at me more if I married when I was old. Youth is the time
of love, and Cupid should surely be the only god that leads us to his
brother. As to my wildness, I own it has been so; but it is past.
To-day, for the first time, I felt it, and regretted it, and
whatsoever I regret the possession of, I cast away, from that minute.
When the imperial soldiers burst upon my poor friends with their white
bull, and seized upon me myself, slaying all around me, I thought of
Eudochia, Theodore; I felt I had done wrong; I regretted my wild
thoughtlessness; and resolved, if Heaven spared me, never more so to
offend again. I thought of Eudochia, Theodore; that thought cured me
of my wildness, and will be my safeguard against the same disease
again."
"Well may it be so, my son," replied Flavia; "and when you know all
that has befallen to this dear girl since you left us this morning,
you will still more deeply feel the evil of such heedlessness; you
will guard your bosom still more strongly against its recurrence."
"What has happened?" cried Ammian, his lustrous eyes flashing with
eagerness--"what has happened?--Valentinian? Ah, I know it all! I saw
him gaze, and sigh, and pass us ten times on the course the other day.
What has happened, my mother? Tell me! tell me!"
"I will," answered Flavia; but Eudochia clung to her, exclaiming, "Not
now! not now, my mother! Oh, not now! Oh, then I will go away!" and
hiding her blushing face upon Ildica's bosom, she hurried away with
her into another tent.
All was then told to Ammian of Eudochia's danger and her rescue, and
deep and sad seemed to grow his feelings as he listened. "Fool that I
was to leave her! Fool that I was to suffer myself to be seduced to
behold that idiot sacrifice! for seduced thereunto I was, doubtless,
by the agents of that imperial villain. Why did you not slay him,
Theodore? I would have slain him where he stood."
"And so would I," replied Theodore, "if he had committed the crime he
intended. He should have died that moment had my own death followed
the next; but Eudochia was saved; and I had still hopes of being able
to remain in Rome. When I returned to the Aventine, however, I heard
enough to make me resolve on flying. I found, too, that the Huns who
had accompanied me from Dacia bore the commands of Attila to all their
fellow-countrymen in the service of Valentinian to return instantly to
their native land. I had nearly a hundred with me, several thousands
more are at Rome and Ravenna; and I found that I could retreat from
the wrath of the tyrant without his power being sufficient to prevent
me. As we came hither, we saw a small body of horse go out from the
gates towards Pincianus, where we had heard you were; and, fearing
some danger, instead of merely sending a messenger to bid you join us,
I sent a sufficient body of my followers to defend you in case of
need. Their leader, who has been faithful to me for four long years,
pledged his own life to bring you to me in safety; and here at length
you are, though I hear with pain that Roman blood has been shed.
Doubtless we shall be pursued; but every hour fresh parties of the
Huns are coming hither to accompany us, and ere to-morrow morning we
shall be too strong for Valentinian to effect aught against us.
However, Heaven forbid that the time should come when I may have to
draw the sword against my fellow-countrymen even in my own defence;
and to avoid it, we will cross the lake an hour before daylight
to-morrow morning, then on through the mountains to rejoin Attila, who
has ever befriended me, and will, I doubt not, befriend me still."