CHAPTER XIII

AD FINES

Perpetua was carried along at a swinging trot in the closed litter, till the end of the street had been reached, and then, after a corner had been turned, the bearers relaxed their pace. It was too dark for her to see what were the buildings past which she was taken, even had she withdrawn the curtains that shut in the litter; but to withdraw these curtains would have required her to exert some force, as they were held together in the grasp of Tarsius, running and striding at the side. But, indeed, she did not suppose it necessary to observe the direction in which she was being conveyed. She had accepted in good faith the assurance that the _lectica_ had been sent by the rich Christian wool merchant, Largus Litomarus, and had acquiesced in her mother’s readiness to accept the offer, without a shadow of suspicion.

God had delivered her from a watery death, and she regarded the gift as one to be respected; her life thus granted her was not to be wilfully thrown away or unnecessarily jeopardized. Unless she escaped from the house of the deacon, she would fall into the hands of the rabble, and this was a prospect more terrifying than any other. If called upon again to witness a good confession, she would do so, God helping her, but she was glad to be spared the ordeal.

It was not till the porters halted, and knocked at a door, and she had descended from the palanquin, that some suspicion crossed her mind that all was not right. She looked about her, and inquired for her mother. Then one whom she had not hitherto noticed drew nigh, bowing, and said: “Lady, your youthful and still beautiful mother will be here presently. The slaves who carry her have gone about another way so as to divert attention from your priceless self, should any of the mob have set off in pursuit.”

The tone of the address surprised the girl. Her mother was not young, and although in her eyes that mother was lovely, yet Quincta was not usually approached with expressions of admiration for her beauty.

Again Perpetua accepted what was said, as the reason given was plausible, and entered the house. The first thing she observed, by the torch glare, was a statue of Apollo. She was surprised, and inquired, hesitatingly, “Is this the house of Julius Largus Litomarus?”

“Admirable is your ladyship’s perspicuity. Even in the dark those more‐ than‐Argus eyes discern the truth. The worthy citizen Largus belongs to the sect. He is menaced as well as other excellent citizens by the unreasoning and irrational vulgar. He has therefore instructed that you should be conveyed to the dwelling of a friend, only deploring that it should be unworthy of your presence.”

“May I ask your name, sir?”

“Septimus Callipodius, at your service.”

“I do not remember to have heard the name, but,” she added with courtesy, “that is due to my ignorance as a young girl, or to my defective memory.”

“It is a name that has not deserved to be harbored in the treasury of such a mind.”

The girl was uneasy. The fulsome compliment and the obsequious bow of the speaker were not merely repugnant to her good taste, but filled her with vague misgivings. It was true that exaggeration and flattery in address were common enough at the period, but not among Christians, who abstained from such extravagance. The mode of speaking adopted by Callipodius stamped him as not being one of the faithful.

“I will summon a female slave to attend on your ladyship,” said he; “and she will conduct you to the women’s apartments. Ask for whatever you desire. The entire contents of the house are at your disposal.”

“I prefer to remain here in the court till my mother shall arrive.”

“Alas! adorable lady! it is possible that you may have to endure her absence for some time. Owing to the disturbed condition of the streets, it is to be feared that her carriage has been stopped; it is not unlikely that she may have been compelled to take refuge elsewhere; but, under no circumstances short of being absolutely prevented from joining you, will she fail to meet you to‐morrow in the villa Ad Fines.”

“Whose villa?”

“The villa to which, for security, you and your mother the Lady Quincta are to be conveyed till the disturbances are over, and the excitement in men’s minds has abated. By Hercules! one might say that the drama of the quest of Proserpine by Ceres were being rehearsed, were it not that the daughter is seeking the mother as well as the latter her incomparable child.”

“I cannot go to Ad Fines without her.”

“Lady, in all humility, as unworthy to advise you in anything, I would venture to suggest that your safety depends on accepting the means of escape that are offered. The high priestess has declared that nothing will satisfy the incensed god but that you should be surrendered to her, and what mercy you would be likely to encounter at her hands, after what has taken place, your penetrating mind will readily perceive. Such being the case, I dare recommend that you snatch at the opportunity offered, fly the city and hide in the villa of a friend who will die rather than surrender you. None will suspect that you are there.”

“What friend? Largus Litomarus is scarcely to be termed an acquaintance of my mother.”

“Danger draws close all generous ties,” said Callipodius.

“But my mother?”

“Your mother, gifted with vast prudence, may have judged that her presence along with you would increase the danger to yourself. I do not say so. But it may so happen that her absence at this moment may be due to her good judgment. On the other hand, it may also have chanced, as I already intimated, that her litter has been stayed, and she has been constrained to sacrifice.”

“That she will never do.”

“In that case, I shudder at the consequences. But why suppose the worst? She has been delayed. And now, lady, suffer me to withdraw—it is an eclipse of my light to be beyond the radiance of your eyes. I depart, however, animated by the conviction, and winging my steps, that I go to perform your dearest wish—to obtain information relative to your lady mother, and to learn when and where she will rejoin you. Be ready to start at dawn—as soon as the city gates are opened, and that will be in another hour.”

Then Perpetua resigned herself to the female servants, who led her into the inner and more private portions of the house, reached by means of a passage called “the Jaws” (_fauces_).

Perpetua was aware that she was in a difficult situation, one in which she was unable to know how she was placed, and from which she could not extricate herself. She was young and inexperienced, and, on the whole, inclined to trust what she was told.

In pagan Rome, it was not customary for girls to be allowed the liberty that alone could give them self‐confidence. Perhaps the condition of that evil world was such that this would not have been possible. When the foulest vice flaunted in public without a blush, when even religion demoralized, then a Roman parent held that the only security for the innocence of a daughter lay in keeping her closely guarded from every corrupting sight and sound. She was separated from her brothers and from all men; she associated with her mother and with female slaves only. She was hardly allowed in the street or road, except in a litter with curtains close drawn, unless it were at some religious festival or public ceremony, when she was attended by her relatives and not allowed out of their sight.

This was due not merely to the fact that evil was rampant, but also to the conviction in the hearts of parents that innocence could be preserved only by ignorance. They were unable to supply a child with any moral principle, to give it any law for the government of life, which would plant the best guardian of virtue within, in the heart.

Augustus, knowing of no divine law, elevated sentimental admiration for the simplicity of the ancients into a principle—only to discover that it was inadequate to bear the strain put on it; that the young failed to comprehend why they should control their passions and deny themselves pleasures out of antiquarian pedantry. Marcus Aurelius had sought in philosophy a law that would keep life pure and noble, but his son Commodus cast philosophy to the winds as a bubble blown by the breath of man, and became a monster of vice. Public opinion was an unstable guide. It did worse than fluctuate, it sank. Much was tolerated under the Empire that was abhorrent to the conscience under the Republic. It allowed to‐day what it had condemned yesterday. It was a nose of wax molded by the vicious governing classes, accommodated to their license.

Although a Christian maiden was supplied with that which the most exalted philosophy could not furnish—a revealed moral code, descending from the Creator of man for the governance of man, yet Christian parents could not expose their children to contamination of mind by allowing them the wide freedom given at this day to an English or American girl. Moreover, the customs of social life had to be complied with, and could not be broken through. Christian girls were accordingly still under some restraint, were kept dependent on their parents, and were not allowed those opportunities for free action which alone develop individuality and give independence of character. Nevertheless, in times of persecution, when many of these maidens thus closely watched were brought to the proof of their faith, they proved as strong as men—so mighty was the grace of God, so stubborn was faith.

Although Perpetua was greatly exhausted by the strain to which she had been exposed during the day, she could not rest when left to herself in a quiet room, so alarmed was she at the absence of her mother.

An hour passed, then a second. Finally, steps sounded in the corridor before her chamber, and she knew that she must rise from the couch on which she had cast herself and continue her flight.

A slave presented herself to inform Perpetua that Callipodius had returned with the tidings that her mother was unable at once to rejoin her, that she was well and safe, and had preceded her to Ad Fines; that she desired her daughter to follow with the utmost expedition, and that she was impatient to embrace her. The slave woman added that the streets were now quiet, the city gates were open, and that the litter was at the door in readiness.

“I will follow you with all speed. Leave me to myself.”

Then, when the slave had withdrawn, Perpetua hastily arranged her ruffled hair, extended her arms, and turning to the east, invoked the protection of the God who had promised, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”

On descending to the _atrium_, Perpetua knelt by the water‐tank and bathed her face and neck. Then she mounted the litter that awaited her outside the house. The bearers at once started at a run, nor did they desist till they had passed through the city gate on the road that led to the mountain range of the Cebennæ. This was no military way, but it led into the pleasant country where the citizens of Nemausus and some of the rich merchants of Narbo had their summer quarters.

The gray dawn had appeared. Market people from the country were coming into the town with their produce in baskets and carts.

The bearers jogged along till the road ascended with sufficient rapidity to make them short of breath. The morning was cold. A streak of light lay in the east, and the wind blew fresh from the same quarter. The colorless white dawn overflowed the plain of the Rhodanus, thickly strewn with olives, whose gray foliage was much of the same tint as the sky overhead. To the south and southeast the olive plantations were broken by tracts of water, some permanent lagoons, others due to recent inundations. To the right, straight as an arrow, white as snow, ran the high road from Italy to Spain, that crossed the Rhodanus at Ugernum, the modern Beaucaire, and came from Italy by Tegulata, the scene of the victory of Marius over the Cimbri, and by Aquæ Sextiæ and its hot springs.

The journey was long; the light grew. Presently the sun rose and flushed all with light and heat. The chill that had penetrated to the marrow of the drowsy girl gave way. She had refused food before starting; now, when the bearers halted at a little wayside tavern for refreshment and rest, she accepted some cakes and spiced wine from the fresh open‐faced hostess with kindly eyes and a pleasant smile, and felt her spirits revive. Was she not to rejoin her dear mother? Had she not escaped with her life from extreme peril? Was she not going to a place where she would be free from pursuit?

She continued her journey with a less anxious heart. The scenery improved, the heights were wooded, there were juniper bushes, here and there tufts of pale helebore.

Then the litter was borne on to a terrace before a mass of limestone crag and forest that rose in the rear. A slave came to the side of the palanquin and drew back the curtain. Perpetua saw a bright pretty villa, with pillars before it forming a peristyle. On the terrace was a fountain plashing in a basin.

“Lady,” said the slave, “this is Ad Fines. The master salutes you humbly, and requests that you will enter.”

“The master? What master?”

“Æmilius Lentulus Varo.”