Part 16
Our party were immediately separated one from another. I saw the priest lifted on a mule and hurried away towards the city, with a horseman on each hand of him. The fiery Cotilius, and one or two more, were compelled to follow, with similar attendance, in the same direction; others, again, had their horses’ heads turned more to the westward—but all departed at speed, and were soon lost to my view among the projections of the tombs. The last that remained to be disposed of were Athanasia and myself, and for a moment I had some hope that we might perhaps be intrusted to the same guards; but this hope was in vain, and after I perceived that it was so, scarcely even was time permitted to me for bidding her farewell. To kiss her hand, and to whisper a single word of parting hope into her ear, was all I could do. A tear rolled from her cheek and fell upon my hand; yet she smiled faintly upon me, and “Hope,” said she—“yes, dear Valerius, Hope and Faith both go with me.” And with that the pale maiden was separated from the arm to which she had trusted, and I saw her also mounted and borne away rapidly. A moment after, I found myself, in like manner, seized and lifted upon a horse, and almost before I could look around me, we had escaped from the flare of the torches, and the crowd of the soldiery, and were stretching at a rapid pace, I knew not whither, although I suspected, from the width of the road, that we had regained the Appian.
But I have forgotten to mention to you, that just at the moment when they were lifting Athanasia upon the mule that was to bear her from my sight, my eye caught a glimpse of the witch Pona, who was sitting at the root of one of the pine-trees, close to the tower. And behind her stood, leaning against the tree, a figure wrapped in a rich red cloak, which I suspected to be a female also, but could not be certain, because the countenance was concealed in the folds of the garment. To this person, whoever it might be, the witch turned round eagerly, while the soldiers were carrying off Athanasia. I saw no more, for, as I have told you, immediately afterwards I also was carried away.
_CHAPTER VI._
Our hasty pace had not borne us to any great distance from the place where all these things occurred, ere the sky, which, as ye have heard, had all that night been sufficiently variable, began to exhibit appearances which my two companions interpreted as significant of the approach of one of those nocturnal storms, to which, at that season of the year, the fair heaven of Italy is peculiarly subject. That they apprehended somewhat of this sort, I perceived from their looks, as they stopped for a moment to draw the hoods of their mantles over their brazen helmets; for words they uttered none, either to me or to each other, until our journey drew near its close. For me, however, the numberless agitations through which I had passed in the course of the few preceding hours, had, I suppose, communicated an unnatural measure of ardour to my boyish blood; for neither did I feel the night-breeze chill me as we rushed through it, nor partook, in any sort, of the desire my companions testified to cover themselves from the rain, which seemed to be about to discharge itself out of all those black and lowering clouds now gathered above our heads from every region of the heavens. When, on the contrary, the first heavy drops fell, I bared my forehead with the eagerness of one who, in a parched region, comes suddenly upon the margin of a well-spring. Nor did this sensation subside even after the storm had thickened to the utmost, and the dusty roads had drunk abundantly of the plashing rain. The strong wind blew with redoubled coolness upon my moistened neck—the rain-drops dashed on my hot hands; and I perceived, that, as is the nature of those animals, the thunder which was mustering in the air, filled my horse one moment with dread, and the next with a blind fierceness. At last the thunder shouted over-head, and its echoes spread wide and far on either side, until they seemed to be absorbed to the left in the remote depths of the Appenine, and on the right hand in the measureless bosom of the Western Sea—of which, as we galloped along the hill side, the broad lightning (unless my fancy deceived me) revealed ever and anon a distant and melancholy glimpse.
We had passed a hill covered with towns, villages, and stately mansions, (which I afterwards learned was no other than the famous Alban,) ere the storm subsided beneath the influence of the reddening dawn. Yet even then we slackened not our pace, although the horses were by this time not a little exhausted with the swiftness of their motion, and the weight of their wet riders. On rode we in the growing light of the morning; but I perceived ere long that we had left the wide and magnificent Appian Way, and were pursuing the line of a narrower road, which seemed to carry us more and more westward.
We halted for a moment on the brow of a declivity, where three paths separated; and I perceived that among my guides there was some little uncertainty as to which of these it behoved them to follow. While they were muttering together, I looked and beheld at length the wide sea heaving far below, over what appeared to me to be a forest as mighty as I had ever seen in my native island.
Old hoary oaks leaned on either hand quite over the narrow path-way, into which (after their brief pause of consultation) my conductors directed our course. Here and there, such a shield had those huge leafy boughs extended over the road, that the dust rose from amongst the feet of our horses as if all that night not one drop of rain had fallen there; although elsewhere, in the absence of such mighty trees, the water lying across the path in pools testified abundantly that the tempest had not spared the forest any more than the champaign. Vast waving gulfs of bay and ilex, with here and there some solitary pine raising itself proudly in the midst, seemed to stretch away on either hand between the groves of those gigantic oaks.
The path we followed carried us ever deeper and deeper into the bosom of the woods; and, at length, so buried were we in the windings of their stifling shade, that I had lost all notion of the direction in which I was moving; until, after two or three hot hours, weary man and jaded horse were, I believe, equally delighted with snuffing once more the open current of the air. We reached not the edge of the forest, however, before I could hear distinctly the dashing of the Mediterranean waves; and the last ascent we climbed laid open to my view a long sweep of the rolling waters, and their rocky coast garnished every where with the richness of superincumbent woods. Far, very far, in the distant north, I thought I could recognize some of the stately towers of Ostium, bosomed apparently within the billows over which they presided. All between was one wide waste of wood and rock, save here and there a watch-tower perched on the margin, and whitened half-way up with the foam of the yet uncalmed sea.
Then, nor ever could I look upon the waters of the great deep, without something of that filial yearning which seems so natural to every native of our sea-girt island. But neither could I contrast the condition in which I now approached it, with the gay and hopeful mood in which I had so lately left it behind me, without many thoughts more sad and serious than as yet had frequently visited my bosom. What a strange brood of visions had passed before my eyes, since, but a few days before, I stept for the first time, light of heart, beneath the shadow of those far-off bulwarks! What new emotions had arisen, in the interval! How had every sense been gratified! how had every dream of imagination been exceeded! Yet what a void had been revealed within!—Alas! said I to myself, why is it that I have been subjected to all these novelties? Had I not done better to have remained, after all, where life flowed ever calmly—where affection hung over me like a protecting buckler, and my soul could sleep in the security of unbroken faith! But this was only for a moment. The thoughts of Athanasia haunted me more deeply and more firmly. I thought over every word she had spoken—every look of hers rose up in succession, with all the vividness of a beautiful and a troubled dream. I seemed to feel, as if she were yet present beside me, the trembling of her pale fingers upon my shoulder—I kissed the hand on which her parting tear had fallen, as if it were yet wet with the dear moisture. When I thought of the perils in which she must now be enveloped—of the pains she must have suffered—must at that moment be suffering,—it was as if I could have burst bands of iron, like flax, from off my hands. When a glimpse of the darker future opened before me, I shuddered, and, urging my poor horse onwards in the recklessness of total abstraction, I perceived that even my guides pitied the agony of my despair.
_CHAPTER VII._
We stopped before one of the watch-towers which, as I have told you, I had seen scattered along the edge of the sea. But this, when we came up to it, appeared larger than I had expected to find any of them. The narrow way, alongst which we had been riding, brought us close to its gate, on the side towards the land; but the rock shelving rapidly on the other side, gave it the semblance, at a little distance, of being suspended over the waves.
It was a building of rude, and apparently very antique structure, the under part square, but the upper circular; as is, for the most part, the old Roman fashion in such erections. And this, indeed, I doubt not, might have stood there long enough to have shewn a beacon, when some fleet of Syracuse or Carthage darkened the blue sea over against the Lestrigonian bay renowned in old song, or the snow-white promontory of Gaieta.
One of the soldiers dismounted, and began to knock rather violently at the door; but some little time elapsed ere any sound from within responded to the clamour he raised. At last a hard and withered face made its appearance at a little opening above the door, and then the helmets passed, I suppose, for a sufficient warrant, for in a twinkling we heard the bolts creaking; the old postern was soon set ajar, and forth stepped the venerable keeper. Imagine a tall, skinny man of threescore years, with a face as dry and yellow as ye have seen on the outside of a pye, and hair as white as ever the skill of a confectioner could represent, and legs bearing the same proportion to the feet, which the shaft of Saturn’s scythe usually does to its blade. Clothe the nether part of this figure in Dacian, or Gaulish breeches, throw a somewhat threadbare cloak over his shoulders, and to finish the outfit, deck his head with a casque of the Macedonian cut, that is to say, sitting close above the ears, and topped with a bristling plume of horse hair. The Warder stood with dignity, and listened with gravity, while one of my Prætorians whispered his message. On its conclusion, he shrugged his shoulders, and regarding me with a glance made up, I think, in pretty equal proportions, of surprise and contempt, signified by the motion of his hand that we might all three enter. He whistled at the same moment, and there came forth a comely damsel, who, with many blushes and smiles, took possession of the reins of our horses.—“Stand there,” quoth he, “stand there, little Cestia, and see if there be never a handful of corn to be got for the prince’s cattle,—stand there, and we shall be with you again anon.” And then he also whispered something into the maiden’s ear, and I saw her looking at me from under her eyelids with an expression of very uncommon curiosity. Two or three curly-pated urchins, of different sizes, joined her at the same moment, and to them, in her turn, the maiden whispered; whereupon the eldest of the children retreating behind her, eyed me earnestly along the skirt of her tunic, while the younger ones continued to gaze where they were, with looks of open stupidity and wonder. Of all this I could make nothing at the moment, but when we had got fairly into the inside of the tower, I heard the children whispering to each other, “A Christian! A Christian! A Jew! A Jew!”
The lower part of the tower, into which I had now been conducted, seemed to form nothing more than one huge, bare, and quadrangular apartment, serving, I supposed (and rightly) at once as hall and vestibule to the upper chambers contained within the walls. A small flight of steps, in one of the corners, seemed to afford the only means of access to what was above; but from the position of a door immediately below these, it was we inferred that there were vaults under ground. Close beside this door there stood, upon a very rude pedestal, a still more rude bust, either of Jupiter, of Apollo, or of Hercules. The workmanship was such, that I could not be very certain which of the family it was intended to represent, nor whether the principal appendage was a club, a lyre, a bow, or a thunder-bolt; but it did not escape my observation, that the old keeper crept as close as he could to the sacred stone, as soon as I stepped over the threshold.
One of the little boys that had come out to the door on our arrival, busied himself in setting forth a wooden board, whereon he placed in great order a huge piece of yellow cheese, and a heap of crisp white cakes of rye. A large jug of water also garnished the mess; but there seemed to be a little less of diligence, or more of difficulty, about the wine. After some pause, however, the mistress of the garrison appeared. A string of amber beads floated to and fro on the ocean of her bosom. She had fine golden bracelets on her arms too, but they were only half seen, being almost buried in fat; and she wore a flaxen wig, which did not entirely conceal the dark bristles below. At the girdle of the amazon hung, on the right side, the much desiderated bunch of keys, being balanced on the left by a dagger and toothpick case, almost of equal dimensions.
“Will _you_ drink to Cæsar, young man?” cried the matron, ere the sitting had been much prolonged; “will you drink honestly to the Emperor, in case you also have a full cup given you? and, by the by, I think you must have almost as much need of it as the rest.” And, with this courteous invitation, I heard her whisper to one of my guards,—“By Jove, ’tis a proper lad, after all; is this true that they have told me of him? Why, I believe, the young man has a red edge to his gown. What is his name? who is he?”—I heard him answer,—“By the life of Cæsar, you know as much about him as any of us. There was a whole cluster taken last night a little way beyond the Capene-Gate, and he was one; but what they were about, or who he is, I know not, only he is certainly somebody, for I saw our Centurion salute him.”—“I saw him with Sabinus,” whispered the other—“I am quite sure of it, the last day the Amphitheatre was open; they sate together, and appeared familiar.”—“I pray you, sir,” quoth the lady, raising her voice,—“I pray you fill your cup, and here I pledge you to our better acquaintance. You shake your head—well. But what must be, must; and while you are with us, we may at least be good friends.”—“Thanks,” said I, complying with her command; “Here, then, is health to all present; and fair health to the great Trajan, says no one here more heartily than I.”—I drank off the wine, and setting down the goblet, I believe I said, “Excellent, by Jove,” or something of that sort; for they all started when they heard what I said, and the old woman called out lustily, “Fill him another cup to the brim, whether he be Christian or not. The young man at least swears by the gods, and drinks to Cæsar.”
“The old man,” observed one of the soldiers,—“he that was killed the other day in the Amphitheatre—he might have saved his head, even at the last moment, if he would have done as much.”—“Well, well,” quoth she again; “let every one mind his own matters. Husband, bring down your book, and let the new-comer enter his name with his own hand.”
Having drained his cup, the keeper rose, and ere long returned with a musty scroll of parchment, which, having blown away the dust from it, he presented to me. I glanced over the record, and found in it the names of various persons, all apparently entered in their own handwriting; and most of them, as I could perceive, bearing date in the troublous reign of Domitian. The last was that of Marcus Protius Lamontanus, who, as it seemed, had been set free from his confinement immediately on the accession of Nerva; and immediately under this I wrote my own name, with that of my birthplace. The keeper read, and said, “So preserve me the power of Jove! A Valerius! and born in Britain! Can you be the son of the same Valerius who was Centurion in the ninth legion under Agricola?”—“You have guessed rightly—I am the same.”—“Then the more is the pity,” he replied, in a grave voice, “that you should have entered, in such a case as this, the dwelling of one that was a true soldier beneath the eagle of your father. But forgive me if in any thing we have been disrespectful.”—“There is no occasion,” said I, “for any such apology. I am here as a prisoner, and have been treated with all courtesy beyond what a prisoner could expect.”
“By Hercules!” interrupted the spouse, “I thought I had some knowledge of the face—Well, I hope ten years hence he will be as fine a man as his father was the day he slew the Caledonian giant, and tumbled him from his chariot in front of all the line—yes, in sight of Galgacus himself. It was the same day,” said she, turning to her lord, “that you were taken prisoner, and driven away into the woods.”—“As witness these marks,” quoth the man; and with that he stripped open his tunic, and displayed part of his breast, stamped with various figures of blue and yellow, after the northern fashion, and bearing withal the traces of two formidable wounds.
The woman redoubled her kindness; but not wishing to interrupt festivity, I soon requested her to shew me the place where I was to be confined. And, indeed, as you may imagine, I had by this time not a little need of repose.
Both she and her husband accordingly rose to usher me to my prison. I gave money to the soldiers, and requested them to inform Sabinus of the place to which I had been conveyed; but did not choose to write any thing, either to him or to Licinius, until I should have had a little time for reflection.
_CHAPTER VIII._
My fatigue brought speedy sleep; and so profound, that before I again unclosed my eyes, the calm sea was already purple below me, and the sun about to set. But neither purple sea, nor golden sky, nor all the divine tranquillity of the evening air, could sooth my mind into repose, after I had once awaked to a sense of the situation into which I had been brought—I should say rather of the situation in which Athanasia was placed. For myself, I could not in seriousness fear any calamity worthy of the name,—if such should come, it must be my business to wrestle with it as I might. But to think of her, young, beautiful, innocent; and of all to which she might be exposed amidst the rude hands in which I had left her!
Some time had passed before my attention was attracted by a conversation carried on in the chamber below me, in which you will not be surprised that I should have felt myself interested, even although the distance was such that I could not distinguish one word that was said. I knew from the first moment that it was impossible I should be mistaken—I was perfectly certain it was Sabinus himself, who was talking with the old woman; and I at once suspected that the worthy Centurion, having learned from the soldiers who carried me off, to what place they had conveyed me, had undertaken this speedy journey, for the purpose of comforting me in my confinement. The kindness with which he had treated me from the beginning of our acquaintance had been such, that I could have no occasion to wonder at his exerting himself to discover me; but I confess this alacrity was more than I had been prepared for, and I waited only for the moment when he should enter my apartment to throw myself upon his bosom, and intrust all my troubles to him, as to a friend and a brother. There was something, however, which I could not at all comprehend in the merriment which seemed to be reigning below on his arrival. Peals of female laughter interrupted the uniform hearty tone of the Centurion’s voice; and the feeble treble of the old Warder himself was stretched ever and anon in attempt at a chuckle.
At last in they came, and Sabinus, embracing me affectionately, thrust into my hand a piece of parchment, which I perceived to be nothing less than an order for my immediate release. Then taking off his riding-cap, and rubbing with his handkerchief his most audacious and soldier-looking brows, “My dear boy,” quoth he, “I see you are going to thank me—but wound not modesty by fine speeches. There was war before Helen—have a better care another time, and don’t pay Rome such a poor compliment, as to say that you can find nobody to charm you but a Christian damsel, and no place for flirtation but a gloomy tomb lined with urns and lachrymatories. My honest friend here was quite frightened with the idea of having such an unbelieving reprobate as they said you were, under the same roof with her children. But now her fears are dispelled, for good souls are always tolerant to the little vagaries of young blood; so thank your hostess, my lad, kiss her hand, take one cup to the hearth of the old tower, and tighten your girdle.”
“Well!” quoth the woman; “who should have thought when the soldiers brought him in with such mystery, that it was all for kissing by moonlight! I protest to Venus, they would have made me believe he had been caught eating an infant; but still I cannot quite pardon him. Well—well—we must e’en take good hope he will mend ere he dies.”
“Die?” cried the Centurion; “do you talk of dying to one that has scarcely yet begun to live!—Come, come, Caius, I hope, after all, you may never get into a worse scrape.”
“And if I do,” said I, “I hope I shall always be equally fortunate in my jailers.”
“By the beard of Jove!” quoth Sabinus, “it needs no great skill to see that you have been fortunate in that respect. I swear that, if the truth were known, you are almost as unwilling to leave this tower now, as you were last night to be torn away from another.”
“Oh, Master Kæso,” quoth she again, “when will you have done with your joking? Well, your father loved a jest in his time himself; but now he, I suppose, is quiet enough. And he, good old man, how does he wear?—Can he still sit in his porch of a fine morning, and listen to the news, as he used to do, with his cup at his knee?”
“I trust the old grasshopper can still chirp when the sun shines. But to tell you the truth, it is long since I have seen him; and if this young blade has no objection, I mean to pay him a visit this very night. I am only just come home from Britain, and have not yet had leisure to salute my Lares.”
I said something about being anxious to return as soon as possible to Rome; but the Centurion answered me with another shout, “Come, come; she’s safe enough. I suppose you think every one gets out of jail as easily as yourself.”