Part 15
“Come now, good Master,” quoth he, “you are taller than I, pluck me a branch from the nearest tree, and I think you shall confess I make a decent Soothsayer.” In this it was easy to gratify him; for there was an old willow just a few yards off, and its boughs were so dry with age, that I soon abstracted a very proper wand for him. After receiving which, he stood for a moment leaning on it in a dignified fashion, as if to rehearse an attitude worthy of his new vocation; and then said—“Well, sir, I think if the Lady Rubellia comes now, we shall be tolerably prepared for her. But I have no disguise for you; therefore, the moment you hear a footstep, be sure you wrap your face in your gown, and stand behind me, for so shall you best consult both your own concealment, and the dignity of this Assyrian. There is no other way by which she can come from the Suburra, therefore we might stay very well where we are; but I think it might be still better to await her coming where there are either tombs or larger trees to cast a shade over our equipage, in case the moon should take it into her head to be more kind to us than she was to Pona.”—“By all means,” said I, “most venerable man—and besides, the wind is rather chilly, therefore I shall be well pleased to have shelter as well as shade.”
“You shall have both,” quoth he; “there is a thick grove of pines only a little way on. I believe there is a very grand tomb in the midst of them, in case you should prefer to sit under it.—By the bye,” he continued, after some little pause, “it is odd enough that it should be so; but I believe it is the very place where all that race of the Sempronii, to which a certain young damsel belongs, have been burnt and buried ever since Rome was a city. You cannot see their tomb yet; but that is only from the thickness of the trees, some of which are, I suppose, even older than itself. Now I remember me, it was just there that they set up two winters ago the funeral pile of old Caius—I mean the father of the Lady Athanasia, whom you saw at Capito’s villa. They are a very noble race, and although none of the richest now-a-days, there is not a prouder in Rome. I saw the procession at that old man’s funeral myself, and I think the images of his ancestors that they carried before him, would have reached half way from hence to the Great Road. Grim, dusty figures, I trow they were; but I doubt not there had been many a haughty captain among them when they were alive.”
These words were spoken as we were moving onwards towards this same grove of pines, and before he had made an end of speaking, we could clearly hear the wind sighing among their branches, and along the dry underground. And on coming to them I found that he had said truly there was a tomb in the midst of them, for a very noble, high, circular tower was indeed there, which, from the grayness of its walls, and luxuriance of ivy, had the appearance of being at least as ancient as any of the surrounding trees. The only method of access to the inside, seemed to be by means of a winding stair, which rose on the exterior from the ground to the summit—a method not unusual in Roman sepulchres—and it was on one of the steps of this stair that I seated myself, where, between the shaded wall on the one side, and the pine branches on the other, I was effectually concealed. As for Dromo, I know not whether it was that he coveted not exactly such close proximity to the stones of such an edifice; but instead of ascending with me, he took up a position beside one of the largest pines over against me.
Although the moon had got rid of her clouds, and the sky, where any of it could be seen, was abundantly brilliant, the natural darkness of that funereal grove was such, that very little difference could be produced in the midst of it by any variation on the face of any nightly luminary. The tower itself received some of the moonbeams on its carved surface; but its contemporary trees participated not in any such illumination,—one solemn shade covering all things beneath the influence of their growth. “I can scarcely see you, Dromo,” said I; “but I think that speck must be your beard, and if so, I beg you would tell me what it is you really have in view by all this preparation? Do you expect me to stay here on a tomb-stone all night, merely because you wish to have an opportunity of terrifying poor Rubellia by some ghost-like howl or other when she passes you?—which, by the way, it seems by no means certain she will do at all. Or what is your purpose?”—“Hush!” was his answer; “ask no questions, but hem thrice if you hear a footstep—for young ears are the keenest.” Accordingly silence was kept so strictly, that, in spite of the chillness of the stone on which I sate, I presently fell into a sort of dozing slumber.
By degrees, however,—nor, considering the hour and the fatigue I had undergone, is it wonderful that it should have been so,—my sleep must have become sufficiently profound, for I did not at first, on waking from it, very well remember either where I was, or for what purpose I had come thither. And, indeed, I have little doubt my slumbers might have continued till day-break, but for the interruption I am now to mention.
And yet it seemed as if even in my sleep I had been prepared for this by some strange anticipation, for although it was a near sound of singing voices that dispelled my slumbers, and made me start from the stone on which I had placed myself, I could not help feeling as if that sound were not altogether new to me;—whether it were that the half-sensible ear had been already ministering indistinctly to the dreaming spirit, or that some purely fantastic prelude had been vouchsafed to the real music. I started up suddenly, that much is certain, and listened with astonishment, yet not altogether with such surprise as might have been expected to attend a transition so hasty from sleep to waking, and from silence to the near neighbourhood of sounds at once so strange and so sweet. With breathless curiosity, nevertheless, with awe, and not entirely I think without terror, did I listen to the notes which seemed to ascend out of the habitation of the noble dead into the nightly air—wild, yet solemn, as if breathed from the bosom of a stately repose and a pensive felicity; insomuch, that almost I persuaded myself I was hearing the forbidden sounds of another world, and the thought came over me,—yet almost I think at that moment without farther disturbing me,—what fearful interpretations the old poets have affixed to such untimely communion, and how the superstition of all antiquity has shrunk from its omen.
My first impulse, after a moment had elapsed, was to call on Dromo, and I did so, at first in a low whisper, and then two or three times more loudly—but all equally in vain, for no answer was returned; and though I strained my eyes in gazing on the place where I had last seen him, yet there I could perceive no trace whatever of any human figure. The moonlight indeed shewed with more distinctness than before the tall stem of the old pine-tree against which he had been leaning; but no motion, nor the least appearance of whiteness, could either my eyes or my imagination discover there. I might easily, you will say, have stept across the road, and entirely satisfied myself; but I know not well what it was that nailed me to the place where I stood, and prevented me even from once thinking of doing so. The calm sepulchral music, my friends, still continued to stream from the recess of the mausoleum, and painless awe held me there, as if by a charm incontrollable. I gazed upwards, and beheld the moon riding above the black pine tops, in a now serene and cloudless heaven. The wind also had passed away, as it appeared, with the clouds it had agitated. The bird of night was asleep on her unseen bough; and all was silent as death, except only the dwelling of the departed; and a certain indescribable delight was beginning, as I gazed and listened, to be mixed with the perturbation wherewith at first I had been inspired.
And I know not how long I might have stood so, but while I was yet listening to this mysterious music, there was mingled with its expiring cadence the sound of a heavy footstep on the staircase above me, and looking up, I perceived in the moonlight the figure of a man, clad in a white gown, but having a naked sword stretched forth in his hand, immediately over the place whereon I was standing. I obeyed the first natural impulse, and leaped downwards swiftly on seeing him; but this availed me nothing, for he also leaped, and almost before my feet had touched the ground, I felt the grasp of his hand upon my shoulder, and that so strongly, that I perceived plainly there was as little possibility of escape as of resistance. I made therefore no farther effort, but suffered him to do with me as he pleased; and he, on his part, said not a single word, but still retaining his hold, pointed with his sword to the same steps from which I had descended, and compelled me to mount them before him, up to the very summit of the round tower.
“Why is this, sir?” said I; “and whither do you conduct me?”
“Peace,” was all his answer; and, in like manner as he had made me climb the exterior, so also he compelled me to begin the descent of a similar flight of steps, which led down from an aperture above, into the interior of the edifice. And although I must confess to you that I obeyed not this silent guidance without considerable fear, yet I strove as well as I could to control myself. I moved with a step in which I think not there could be perceived any trembling.
Yet you will admit that even had I been master at that moment of less firmness, I might have been excusable; for looking down, I perceived that a lamp was burning in the midst of the sepulchral tower far below me, and saw sitting around it a company of eight or ten persons, at whose mercy, it was quite visible, I must be placed. Neither, if I might judge from the demeanour of the person that was bringing me into their assembly, did there appear to be any great room for dependance on them; for, as to themselves, not one of them looked up towards me as I was stepping down, and being wrapped in their cloaks, I had no means of discovering what manner of persons they were. The way in which I had been treated, however, by one of their number, was a sufficient evidence, either that they conceived themselves to have been injured by my being there, or that they were capable of taking some undue advantage of my helpless condition. The calmness of their attitudes, and the recollection of the sounds that I had heard, inclined me to the former of these suppositions; and when I perceived that not one of them stirred, even till I had reached the lowmost step of the interior staircase, in this, without question, I already felt myself considerably strengthened.
“Behold,” said my guide, as I at length touched the marble floor of the mausoleum itself—“Behold proof, and that living, that my suspicions were not quite so groundless as you were pleased to imagine. Here is a man whom I found listening, even on the very steps of this tower. It is for you to decide what shall be done with the eaves-dropper.”
With this the whole company sprung at once to their feet, and I perceived evidently, from the surprise expressed in their looks and attitudes, that until that moment not one of them had been aware of my approach. I was about to speak, and declare my innocence of any treachery, or even of any knowledge concerning the purpose of their meeting; but before I could do so, one of them, and I think the oldest of all that were present, having in an instant recovered the tranquillity which my arrival had disturbed, said to me in a voice of the utmost gentleness, “Young man, what has brought thee hither, or who sent thee? Art thou indeed a spy, and was it thy purpose to betray our assembly?”
“Sir,” said I, “I know nothing of your assembly, or of its purpose; I fell asleep by accident on the outside of this tower, and, when I awoke, the music that I heard detained me.”
“Examine the stripling,” quoth he that had conducted me—“examine his person.”—“His looks belie him,” replied the senior, “if you have cause for suspicion. But if you will it so, search the young man.” And with that my guide, laying his unsheathed sword upon a table, or altar of black marble, proceeded to search my garments, and finding in my bosom the scroll which I had received from Tisias, he glanced on it for a moment, and then handing it to the senior, said, “Now, sirs, doubt ye if ye will.”—“Before heaven—it is the book of the holy Luke!” said the other; “this is indeed suspicious. How came this scroll into thy hands, young man? Art thou aware that one of the books of the Christians has been found in thy bosom?”—“I know it,” said I; “it is one of the books of their faith, and I have read in it this evening for the first time.”—“Then thou art not thyself a Christian?”—“I received the book from one Christian,” said I, waiving the question; “and I made promise to deliver it into the hands of another?”—“Name the Christian who gave thee this book!” said my stern guide.—“Tisias of Antioch,” I replied; “the same who died yesterday in the Amphitheatre.”—“Yes,” quoth he, again; “and I suppose it was there he gave it to you. Every one knows the name of Tisias. Name, if you please, the person to whom you are to deliver the book.”—“You shall pardon me,” said I, “that I will not. You may call me an eaves-dropper, if you will; but you shall find I am no traitor. It is a Roman—a noble Roman lady to whom I must give this book; and I would not tell you her name although you should slaughter me here in this tomb, which I have entered living and without guilt.” And having said this, I folded my arms, and stood still, abiding their will.
But scarcely had I finished these words, ere I felt a small trembling hand laid upon my shoulder, and looking round, I perceived Athanasia herself, who whispered into my ear,—“Valerius, was the book for me? If so, you may say it boldly, and I will vouch for your word.”—“For you, lady,” I answered in the same tone, “and for none other. You well know that I was present in his prison the night before his death; so far at least you can confirm what I have said.”
“Sir,” said she, addressing the old man that had before questioned me, “I know this young man: and I believe what he has said, and will be answerable for his fidelity. It was he that went in to our friend the other night in his prison, and the book was intrusted to him by the old man, that it might be given into my hands. His name is Valerius—Caius Valerius—and he is by birth a noble Roman.”
“Say you so, lady?” interrupted my original conductor; “then I ask his pardon. I have wronged Caius Valerius; but both you and he must forgive me, for it must be confessed he was found in a very extraordinary situation.”
“Even so,” I replied, “I have nothing to complain of. I perceive that I am present in an assembly of Christians; but he shall do me much wrong that thinks I bear any enmity to them,—or, from all that I have yet seen or read, to the faith which they profess. I have read part of that book,” I continued, “for I made promise to Tisias that I should do so before giving it to Athanasia; and I trust I shall still be permitted by her to read more of it before it is finally demanded from me.”—“Oh, read it!” said Athanasia, gently again whispering to me. “Oh yes, read the book, Valerius, and may God enlighten the reader.” And so saying, she herself took up the scroll from the table on which it was lying, and gave it again into my hands.—“There was also a letter for you,” said I, receiving it, “but that I left at home.”—“No matter,” said Athanasia, “you shall give me the letter and the book both together hereafter.”
“In the meantime,” said I, “I suppose it were better I should retire.”
“Young sir,” said the senior, “that is as you please; in a little while we shall all be moving towards the city. Stay with us till then, if such be your will; that which you may hear, can at least do you no harm. Already, I doubt not, you have seen enough to despise the ignorant calumnies of our enemies.”
When he had said so, the old man walked to the side of the sepulchre, and took out from behind one of the urns that stood there, (ranged in their niches,) a small casquet, which, returning, he placed before him on the marble table. Then, opening the casquet, he brought forth a silver goblet, and a salver containing some little pieces of bread; and, untying from his neck a massive cross of gold, he set that also on the table, between the cup and the salver. In brief, the Christian priest, (for such, as you already see, he was,) had finished his preparation, and was about to commence the administration of the blessed Eucharist. And when all the rest were kneeling before the table, Athanasia, laying her hand upon my arm, beckoned to me to kneel by her side; and so indeed I would have done in my ignorance, had not the priest himself pointed to a station a few yards behind the lady, to which, accordingly, I drew back—apart from those who were to be privileged with the participation of those holy symbols.
Scarcely had they composed themselves in their places, and listened to the first words of the appointed service, when I, standing there by myself, thought, unless my ears deceived me, there must be some one on the outer stair-case of the tower; and my eyes instinctively, I suppose, were fixed upon the aperture, which, as I have told you, was in the high roof above the circle of the niched walls. Here, however, when I first looked, there was nothing to be seen, but the round spot of the sky, far up in the midst of the marble roof; but while I was looking steadfastly, that space was suddenly diminished; and a dog bayed, and at the same moment a voice which I well knew, screamed, “I have them—I hold them—let them burst the net if they can.”
The cry of Pona disturbed effectually the Christian priest, and the whole of those that were with him. Rising up hastily from their knees, they stood all together around the table, while the old man, having kissed both the cup and the cross, restored them as quickly as he could to the casket from which they had been taken. But while the priest was doing this, he that found me on the stair appearing to revert into his suspicion, and looking sternly upon me where I stood, said, “Is this then the innocence which we spared! Is this the noble Roman for whom Athanasia pledged herself? Speak, brethren, what shall be done to this traitor, by whom, even more than by those dogs of the tombs, it is a shame for us that we have been hunted?” Saying so, the man lifted up his sword again, and it seemed as if he would have smitten me to the ground without farther question. But Athanasia threw herself swiftly between him and me. “For shame, Cotilius,” said she; “such suspiciousness is unworthy of a Roman knight.”—“You say well, noble damsel,” quoth the old priest, interrupting her; “but you might say also that such cruelty is unworthy of a soldier of Christ. Peace, peace, children; there is no evil in the youth, nor, if there were, would it be our part to avenge it.”
While he was saying this, three or four blazing torches were thrust down into the place from above, and Athanasia, laying her hand upon my arm, said, “Look up, Caius, I see helmets.—Alas! am I not already here? why, if they will slay me, should they drag me away now from the tomb of my fathers?” I felt the trembling of her hands, and she leaned upon my shoulder. I know not, I will confess to you, whether at that moment I tasted more of pleasure or of pain.
But by this time several of the soldiers had already begun to descend into the tower, and before another minute had elapsed, we found ourselves surrounded by the flame of their torches. And he that seemed to lead the party, after counting us one by one, said, turning to his companions, “Well, an old woman has told the truth for once—here are even more I think than she warned us of.—Come along, worthy people, you must not keep the Tribune waiting for you all night, and our watch is well-nigh expired already. Come, mount the stair—it will take a good half hour yet, I believe, to lodge you all safely in the Tullian—And do you,” he added, laying his hand on the hilt of Cotilius’ sword—“do you, brave sir, allow me to save you the trouble of carrying this bauble.” Nor was the stern knight so foolish as to dispute the command; but having yielded up his sword, he forthwith began to ascend, one or two spearmen preceding him with their torches. The priest followed, and so did the rest; the last being Athanasia and myself.
On every side around the old tower, when I looked from the summit of it, I perceived foot soldiers drawn up in a double line, while the road along which I had come with Dromo, was occupied by a band of horsemen, one of whom moved forward when he saw us descending, as if to take cognizance of the number and quality of the surprised assembly. His long cloak being muffled about his ears as he sate, and the shadow of his helmet falling deeply, I did not at first suspect who it was; but he had not counted half the party to the superior Officer behind him, ere I recognized him from the sound of his voice; and who, think ye, should it be but my good friend Sabinus?
The Centurion, when his eye detected me, checked his horse so sharply that the animal bounded into the air; and, “Valerius!” quoth he, “ha! by the life of Cæsar, what is the meaning of this? Valerius in a Christian synagogue! By all the gods, there must be some mistake.” But before I, in my confusion, could make any answer to these exclamations, his eye chanced to glance on Athanasia, who, trembling, still retained the support of my arm; whereupon, “Ha! ha!” said he, in a quite different tone of voice, “there is a lady in the case.” And then, stooping in his seat, he whispered, half laughing, into my ear, “My most hypocritical smooth-face, you shall see what is the consequence of bringing these transatlantic pranks of yours to Rome. By Hercules, you wild dog, it may cost you some little trouble to get out of this scrape.”
Having said so, he turned his horse, and rejoining the troop, appeared to enter into close conversation with him who sate at the head of the line. Of what my friend said, I could catch nothing more than certain vehement oaths, while, all the time, the Tribune (for such he was) continued to shake his head, in a way significant at once of doubt and determination. The end was, that he pointed with his sword; and Sabinus forced his horse backwards, at one plunge, into the place from which he had advanced.