CHAPTER XII.

VANISHING.

Throughout that day of preparation for the festival, the new priestess was continually thinking of her interview with Claudius on the Cælian Hill. Not even the new dignities which were conferred on her could entirely banish from her mind the words and bearing of the old companion of her childish days in Britain.

It was a grand thing to sprinkle with her own hands the sacred shrine and Palladium, to be consecrated solemnly by the priest for all the functions of her office, as she had once been dedicated as a child to be trained to fulfil them.

The beautiful new garments of spotless purity were solemnly placed upon her, and when the ceremony was over, and she had rested for a time, Terentia Rufilla led her to her place behind the altar, and gave into her charge the sacred fire, which was to be replenished continually during the silent hours of the night.

Then, with a kiss, the Vestal Maxima departed, the temple door was closed, and Hyacintha was alone.

Through the opening in the roof the deep blue sky of the Italian night was seen, studded with stars, and from afar came the sound of the surging multitudes of Rome, like the distant roar of the sea, growing less and less distinct as the summer night hushed even the busy throngs of the Roman citizens to rest.

Hyacintha felt a sense of awe, but not of fear. She looked up at the face of the figure of the goddess, and then beyond it, upwards to the stars, and she felt as far from the one as from the other.

There was no bond of love between Vesta and her priestess, no sign that for her she felt any particular care or affection.

It was a high honour to be her priestess; from her childhood she had craved for it, and now the honour was hers, and yet, surely, there was a void, a want somewhere, which Vesta could not fill.

It was service for Rome to guard that sacred fire, and as she moved gently, with a sort of hushed reverence, to the silver vessels where the fuel was kept, to replenish that clear bright flame, she almost started at her own movements, and scarcely dared to breathe, as she gently and reverently fed the sacred fire.

“It is for the good of Rome and her people,” she thought, “it is a service which many thousands might envy, but there is scarce the response within my heart of which Claudius spoke; did he not call it ‘a witness.’ I felt a great glow of joy to-day when I took poor little Pulcheria to my chamber, and consoled her for her grief that she was not thought fair enough to lead the procession of the children disciples through Rome to-morrow. Poor little one! how she wept because Valeria had been elected and she was rejected. As she threw her arms round my neck and sobbed out that she loved to be with me, and that she would not care about Valeria’s unkind words if I were her friend, I felt that sweetness at my heart which I do not feel here. Here, where I am fulfilling the most beautiful of offices--the guardian of the Palladium--the replenishing of the sacred flame!

“I ought to be satisfied and happy, with a happiness greater than that of the pleasure-seeking ladies, whose life is passed in indulgence, and who die at last, worn out with the search for that, to judge by many sad faces, they never find.

“I have a higher and nobler destiny to fulfil, and I can never become like old Lucia or Agrippina, who go through all the service of the temple with slow unwilling feet, dark sad eyes, and even mutter words of dissatisfaction.

“Nor can I ever grow into the nearly worn out victim of pleasure, still less the sorrowful, heavy-hearted priestess, whose service has lost its charm. Nay, for the twenty years I may spend here my life shall at least be happier than that of my poor mother, who died, as some have said, by poison, administered by a slave whom she had hated. Yet, how beautiful she was in the atrium at Verulam, with Ebba--dear Ebba--standing at her side. I can see her now, toying with her lovely hair, when Ebba had plaited into the tresses the gold ornaments and arranged the long violet ribbons with their gold fringe. Poor Ebba, and dear Casca! Shall I ever see them again?”

This desultory train of thought flowed on during the watches of the short night. For the summer morning of the ninth of June soon broke over the hills, and touched the Forum and the Temple, and the façades of the Imperial Palace, and the long vista of stately figures on the Appian Way, with a soft rosy light. The day of the great festival dawned in exquisite beauty, and everyone within the precincts of the Temple and the House of the Vestals was astir.

But the great festival did not attract so much attention as in former years. Even in the early days of her own priesthood, Terentia Rufilla remembered how far more numerous were the applications from noble houses for a place in the procession through the streets of Rome. Nevertheless, the effect was sufficiently imposing, as the long line flowed past the spectators, with all the garlands and crowns fluttering gently in the summer air.

The children came first--sweet grave-eyed little maidens--with offerings in their hands for the altar of Jupiter Pistor, which was erected expressly for the occasion. Then came the fully-consecrated vestals, barefooted, in their flowing robes, which became them so well.

Conspicuous amongst these was Hyacintha Severa. She carried the folds of her large purple mantle with wonderful grace over her arm, and her long white robe flowing beneath it to her feet, showed the outline of her beautifully-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage.

The close covering on her head, which was to some women far from becoming, seemed only to enhance the beauty of her slender throat, upon which her head was set like a flower upon a stalk. Long ribbons floated at the back, and added to the effect of the picture, of which the recent discoveries of the figures in the Vestals’ House, which the sculptors of those days delighted to perpetuate in marble, have given us some faint idea. But no sculptor or painter could perpetuate the grave happiness which was shed, like the soft halo of a summer night upon a lovely landscape, over the face of Hyacintha Severa.

As the last fully-consecrated Vestal, she walked a little in front of the five who followed her, and then came the noble and stately form of Terentia Rufilla. She had lost, of course, all the charms of youth, but her features were finely cut, and her carriage stately and imposing. There were many gorgeously-dressed Roman ladies behind her, whose splendid crimson and violet robes, glistening with jewels and sparkling with pearls, contrasted well with the long train of white-robed maidens which wound slowly on before them through crowds of spectators, the lictors clearing the road which was in many places strewn with flowers as they walked.

Claudius was amongst the outside crowd which moved along with the procession. His high rank as Commander of the Forces under the Emperor Constantine ensured him respect, and he and a few of his officers who were with him, drew up in martial array before the temple, as the Vestals passed in to the great sacrifice.

Some of his officers crossed the threshold and stood gazing at the high ceremonial with curiosity, prostrating themselves in that mechanical way which characterised the religious services of the temple in those the last days of the worship of the heathen gods.

Claudius’s great height placed him on a vantage-ground, and he could see over the heads of the dense crowd before him. He had never once lost sight of Hyacintha, but she was utterly unconscious of his presence. All the enthusiasm of her nature was awakened by this public acknowledgment of the service to which she had devoted her life.

As the priest in his gorgeous vestments sacrificed before the goddess, and the clouds of smoke rose and ascended to the sky through the impluvium or open space in the roof, Hyacintha’s heart went up to One whom she “ignorantly worshipped;” and if the desire of her soul could have been put into words, it would have been that she might be kept pure in her temple ministry, and that the fire of devotion might be ever burning clear and bright in her heart, as she had vowed to keep the sacred flame burning on the altar of Vesta. While many of her companions were looking around them, to see what friends and acquaintances were in the crowd, Hyacintha was lifted far above the throng of worshippers, and gazers on the spectacle, and thought only of the joy of service, and the happiness of being at last a fully-consecrated priestess, one of a long line which reached back a thousand years, and reached forward, as she believed, to a future age.

The young priestess that day entering upon her office had no presentiment of what was indeed the fact, that the years of the Vestals were numbered, and that Terentia Rufilla was to have but two successors as Vestal Maxima, and that one of these was herself. Terentia, however, knew that many new influences were at work, which were undermining the old traditions or scattering them to the winds of heaven. The fear at her heart was as great as the joy which filled Hyacintha’s, and she could scarcely assume a cheerful aspect at the banquet, to which many of the highest families in Rome were bidden.

The whole day was one of feasting, and games were celebrated, and the Vestals were present in the Circus Maximus, where seats were, as in the Coliseum, always reserved for them near those allotted to the Emperor.

It was there that Hyacintha first seemed to be conscious of Claudius’s presence, and when he saluted her with profound respect, she turned to Terentia, and said:--

“This is good Claudius, my father’s friend,” and Terentia was not slow to notice how the soft blush rose to Hyacintha’s cheek, as she pronounced the few words of introduction.

So the day wore on in feasting and pleasure, and then the shadows of the evening came down upon the city. Hyacintha, who was sleeping after the fatigue of the day, was awakened by Terentia’s voice:--

“It is drawing near the hour for thy watch, dear child,” she said; “shall I watch to-night, and let thee dream? I have been looking at thy sleeping face for some minutes,” she said, gently smoothing back the golden-brown rings of short hair which clustered round Hyacintha’s brow.

“Happy dreams they must surely have been, for there was a smile upon thy lips.”

“Yes,” Hyacintha said, “I had a vision, I think. Wait till I recall it,” and she drew her hand across her eyes, and pressed it on her forehead. “I remember,” she said,--“yes, I remember now. I thought I was looking down on Rome from a high place--not the Cælian Hill or the Quirinal--it was a hill far higher. Indeed, I saw them beneath me, and I saw the temples beneath me, and our temple most distinctly of all. Then, as I looked, it vanished. It was not thrown down or destroyed; it melted into air slowly--very slowly; but soon it was gone: and then I looked around me, and lo! all the temples were fading, and a voice spoke to me, and it was the voice of a humble but true friend--Ebba, or Anna, the British slave. She, too, was changed. She wore garments like ours, only whiter and more dazzling, and she held out her hand to me, and asked me to go up with her to the city to which she pointed. But when I looked I could see only a golden glory, and nothing distinctly. My eyes were dazzled, and I turned away. Then Ebba drew me on and told me to listen, for there was sweet music. But my ears were dull; I could not hear what she heard. Then she took me in her arms, and I laid my head upon her breast, as I have often done when I was a child; and she said:--

“‘Not yet--not yet; but you are coming out of the darkness into the light.’ And a sweet peace stole over me, and I felt a cool hand on my brow; and then I awoke, and it was not Ebba at all, but you, dearest lady--sweet mother--as I love to call you. It was a happy dream; and it is a happy awakening.”

“It was a vision,” Terentia said, “for I do believe the temples are vanishing, and soon only the memory will be left. I say soon; it may not be in my life-time or in yours; but the end is coming, and the time of our nightly watches yonder is short. I hear a rumour to-day that an edict establishing Christianity will be published to-morrow, and then the old faiths will be seen like the phantom of your dream--vanishing--vanishing, and at last vanish away.”

“And what will be the end?” Hyacintha asked; “what will come after?”

“Nay, child; it is not given me to know, nor even dimly guess; but if there be a future at all, that future is not for us.”

The sorrowful tone of Terentia’s voice seemed like the minor chord in the music of the young priestess’s soul. Vanishing--vanishing--vanished! Was everything to vanish?--life and youth and hope, and the sacred fire, and the Palladium, and the goddess herself--all to pass away, and leave no trace behind? Well, it was not for her to question, or cavil, or doubt. The daily service of the temple--the nightly watch--these were marked out for her--these were, at any rate, real and tangible. She would perform them zealously and faithfully, and make each day like a pearl, which should prove ere long a strong chain, uniting her with the Great Past, and so making a bond with all her predecessors who had kept their vow and their womanhood pure and undefiled. With that simplicity which is the outcome of the highest gifts, with that entire absence of self-consciousness which invariably marks those whose beauty is far beyond the ordinary type of fair women, Hyacintha Severa stands forth to command our love and admiration as a light that shone in a dark place--a star that trembled on the verge of dawn, the dawn of a holier and purer day, which was even then breaking over the world.

The festival of the goddess Vesta had scarcely passed when a crowd assembled in the Forum to hear the proclamation, that henceforth the Christians were to be allowed freedom to worship their God without being interfered with; and from that time Christianity might be said to be established in Rome and the world.

Great were the rejoicings in the Church. The hidden worship of the Catacombs became now open and to be heard and seen of all men. The orders of the Christian Church were enlarged, and bishops and priests and deacons were appointed to minister to the people. The sun had risen, at last, over the darkness of the heathen world, and in those early days was as yet but little clouded by the mists of earth, by those “superstitious vanities” which so grievously eclipsed the glory of the Church of Rome in succeeding generations.

Now there was purity of life and doctrine, and, like Claudius, thousands were won over by the example of the converts rather than by the preaching of the priests.

The witness in every man’s soul who turned to the living God made itself seen in the life and conversation, and there were dark places indeed in that year of Christian freedom which made the opening of the Christian life more beautiful by force of contrast.

In this very year--313--the most shameful life of Maximian, and his treatment of the unhappy Valeria, the widow of Galerius, had made even the luxurious Roman shudder with horror. The story of the foul murders at Nicomedia reached Rome, and filled many hearts with sorrow. If the religion of Christ showed the way of escape from such wicked passions and low base deeds, there was safety in it.

And then, on the lower ground of personal security, many professed themselves to be Christians; many who had not troubled themselves to inquire into the doctrines of Christ’s disciples, saw that they practised purity of life and manners, and now that there was no persecution or torture to dread, Christianity became more widely accepted, and the churches were thronged, while the temples were deserted.

It is not possible to take a comprehensive view of the Roman empire at this time. The few incidents which are thrown together, directly or indirectly, affect the action of the story, but a careful study of these early days of Christianity, and the last days of heathenism, will well repay the student; and the secret of silent advance and growth of the faith of Christ will be found to be then, as now, more in the influence of individual character than in fierce controversy or angry invective.

The Church of Rome, as it sprang to light when the edict of 313 was published, was indeed different from the Church, many centuries later, when the Monk of Erfurt entered the city by the Porta del Popoli, full of enthusiasm, and ready to climb the “Scala Santa” on his knees in expiation of his sins.

He entered it a devout son of the Church of the Seven Hills; he left it depressed, disgusted, but determined to do battle, like the valiant soul that he was, against its corrupt practices. In ten years the young monk who had saluted the city on his first entrance as Holy Rome, Rome venerable with the blood of the martyrs, burned the Pope’s Bull in the square of Wittenberg, and with a loud voice, which echoed through Christendom, proclaimed that the Church of the Early Martyrs was so overlaid by the wickedness of a corrupt age, that she must be utterly purged of defilement, before she could be resorted to as the mother under whose wings the people might safely take refuge.