Part 21

“Fear not,” answered Aurelius: “have I not told you already oftentimes, that strength of heart goes not with bone and sinew, and that my gentle child is prepared for all things? She also well knows that the servant is not greater than the master.”

The old man motioned to us to remain where we were, and withdrew. I sate for some minutes by the side of Silo, who was, indeed, manifestly much troubled, until at length the same modest little damsel opened the door, and addressing the jailer as her father, asked leave to conduct me to Aurelius.

The child led me, therefore, into the adjoining chamber, and tapped gently at a door on the other side of it. The voice of the old priest bade us come in, and Athanasia arose with him to receive me. She was dressed in a white tunic, her hair braided in dark folds upon her forehead; her countenance was calm, and, but for the paleness of her lips, I should have said that her gravity scarcely partook of sadness. When, however, we had exchanged our salutations, it was evident that some effort had been necessary for this appearance of serenity; for when she spoke to me her voice trembled in every tone, and, as she stooped to caress my young guide, who had sate down by her feet, I saw the tear that had been gathering drop heavily, and lose itself among the bright clusters of the little damsel’s hair. I took her unresisting hand, and imitated as best I could the language of consolation. But it seemed as if my poor whispers only served to increase the misery. She covered her face with her hands, and sobs and tears were mingled together, and the blood glowed red in her neck, in the agony of her lamentation.

The old priest was moved at first scarcely less than myself by this sorrowful sight. Yet the calmness of age deserted him not long, and after a moment there remained nothing on his countenance but the gravity and tenderness of compassion. He arose from his seat, and walked quietly towards the end of the apartment, from which when he returned, after a brief space, there was an ancient volume open in his hand. And standing near us, he began to read aloud, in the Greek tongue, words which were then new, and which have ever since been in a peculiar manner dear to me.

_God is our refuge and strength; a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear though the earth be removed; though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be troubled; though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof._

Athanasia took her hands from her face, and gradually composing herself, looked through her tears upon the old man as he proceeded.

_There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God; the holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High._

_God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God shall help her, and that right early._

_The heathen raged; the kingdoms were moved. He uttered his voice; the earth melted._

_The Lord of Hosts is with us. The God of Jacob is our refuge._

The blood had mounted in the countenance of Aurelius, ere he reached these last words. The tears also had been dried up on the pale cheek of Athanasia; and although her voice was not heard, I saw that her lips moved fervently along with those of the priest. Even in me, ignorant of their source, the words of the royal prophet produced I know not what of buoyance and emotion, and perhaps my lips, too, had involuntarily essayed to follow them; for when he paused from his reading, the old man turned to me with a face full of benignity, and said, “Yes, Valerius, it is even so; Homer, Pindar, Æschylus—these, indeed, can stir the blood; but it is such poetry as this that alone can sooth in sorrow, and strengthen in the hour of tribulation. Your vain-glorious Greeks called all men barbarians but themselves; and yet these words, and thousands not less precious than these, consoled the afflictions, and ennobled the triumphs of the chosen race of Israel long, long years, ere ever the boasted melody of Ionian or Doric verse had been heard of. From this alone, young man, you may judge what measure of candour inhabits along with the disdain of our proud enemies:—how fairly, without question, or opportunity of defence, the charge of barbarity is heaped upon what they are pleased to call our _superstition_;—how wisely the learned and the powerful of the earth have combined in this league against the truth which they know not,—of which they fear or despise the knowledge. Surely the truth is mighty, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against her.”

“But, alas! my dear father,” said Athanasia, “I fear me this is not the place, nor the situation, in which Valerius might be most likely to listen to your words. It may be that his own narrow escape, to say nothing of our present danger, has rendered him even more cautious than he was before.”

“And who, my dear child,” he replied hastily,—“and who is he that shall dare to blame caution, or to preach, above all in such things as these, the rashness that is of folly? Valerius will not believe that we, like the miserable creatures whose impious songs he heard last night, are studious only of working upon the fears of the ignorant, and harassing, with dark and lying dreams, the imaginations of the simple. _Here_ are no wild stories of blood-thirsty deities, and self-sacrificing maniacs. _Here_ is that which Socrates vainly sought by all the ingenuity of reason. _Here_ is that of which some faint and mysterious anticipations would appear to have been shadowed forth in the visions of Plato. _Here_ is that which, as that Mighty Martyr who died in this very city hath said, innumerable prophets and kings of the old time desired to see, and yet saw not. Do nothing rashly, young man; but it is possible, as you yourself well know, that this may be the last opportunity I shall ever have of speaking with you; and therefore, before we part, I must needs charge you solemnly, that henceforth, if your knowledge increase not, the sin shall be upon your head. I charge you, Valerius, that when you return to your island, you blot not from your memory the things that you have seen and heard in this great city of light and of darkness. Examine—judge—ask aid, and aid shall not be refused you. I take Athanasia to witness, that I have given you the warning that is needful.”

“Oh, sir!” said Athanasia, “I am sure it shall not be in vain that you have done so. I am sure Valerius will never forget this hour——”

She gazed in my face, and a tear was again visible, yet on all her countenance there was no other semblance of passion. The venerable Aurelius clasping his thin hands together, whispered,—“Would to God that I were here alone! Shall the axe be laid to the root of the fair young tree that hath but begun to blossom, when so many old trunks stand around withered with the lightnings, and sore broken by the winds?—The will of the Lord be done!”

“Amen!” said Athanasia, taking the old man by the hand, and smiling, I think, more cheerfully than I had yet seen her—“My dear father, I fear you yourself, after all, are teaching Valerius to take but a sad farewell of us.”

“Alas! my child,” he replied, “he must have a hard heart that could look unmoved on that sweet face in this hour of sadness. But we are in the hands of a greater than Trajan. If so it please Him, all may yet go well with us even here upon the earth. You may live to see many happy years among your kindred—and I, (the old man smiled most serenely,) and for me, my gray hairs may be laid in bloodless dust. Whatever awaits us, blessed be the name of the Lord!”

So saying, the old man retired from the chamber, and once more I was left alone in the presence of Athanasia. I took from my bosom the book and the letter which I had placed there, and laid them upon her knee. She broke the seal, and read hastily what Tisias had written, and then concealed the scroll within her tunic, saying, “Alas! Valerius, little did the brave old soldier suspect how soon his peril was to be mine—Will you permit me like him to make you my messenger?—will you seek out my cousin, my sister, and tell Sempronia in what condition you have found me?—no, not in what you found—but in what you now see me. Will you go, Valerius, and speak comfort to my poor friend? Her pity, at least, I am sure is mingled with no angry thoughts; and yet she only has reason to complain, for her secret thoughts were not hid from me, and, alas! I concealed mine from her.”

“I have already seen her,” said I, “and you do her no more than justice. But, indeed, Sempronius himself thinks of you even as gently as his daughter.”

“I doubt it not, Valerius; but, alas! there are many others besides these; and I know not what relic of weakness it is, but methinks I could have borne the worst more easily, had it not been for what I picture to myself of their resentment. Alas! I am cut off for ever from the memory of my kindred.” She threw open the lattice, as if that she might inhale the free air, and her eyes wandered to and fro over all the magnificent prospect that lay stretched out below us,—the temples and high porticos of the Forum—the gleaming battlements and long arcades of the Palatine—the baths, and theatres, and circuses between and the river—Tiber winding away among fields and groves—and the sky of Italy extending over all things its arch of splendour. When the trumpets were blown by the gate of the Senate-house, the sound floated upwards to us as gently as if it had been borne over the waters. The shouts of the multitude were faintly re-echoed from the towers and the rocks. The princely pageant shewed like a pomp of pigmies; spear, and helmet, and eagle glittered together, almost like dews upon the distant herbage. Athanasia rested her eye once more upon the wide range of the champaign, where fields and forests were spread out in interminable succession—away towards the northern region and the visible mountains. She raised her hand, and said, “Valerius, your home lies far away yonder. I must give you something which you shall promise me to carry with you, and preserve in memory—of Rome.”

Before I had time to make any answer, she had taken out of a casket that stood beside us, a scroll of parchment, bound with a silk ribbon, which she immediately put into my hands, and—“To-morrow,” said she, “Valerius, our fate, they tell us, must at length be determined;—if we share the fate of Tisias, the last gift of Tisias shall be yours. If, however, any mercy be extended to us, I cannot part with that memorial of a dying martyr. I must keep to myself the old man’s favourite volume, for it was for me he had designed it. But I have made a copy of the same book for yourself. I have written it since I came hither, Valerius, and you must not despise it because the Mammertine has not furnished the finest of materials. Take this, Valerius, and take with it my thanks—my prayers. I know you will not forget my message to my dear sister.—Sextus and she—may many happy days be theirs—and yours.”

I kissed the sad gift, and placed it in my bosom.

“Valerius,” she said, “dry up your tears. You weep for me because I am a Christian; forget not that the Roman blood flows in my veins, and think not that its current is chilled, because I have forsworn the worship of idol and demon, and am in peril for the service of The Living God.”

“Athanasia!” said I,—“I weep for you, but not for you alone. I ask nothing—I hope nothing—but I could not bear to part with you thus, and not to tell you that when I part from you, I bid farewell to all things. Pardon me—once more pardon me.”

A single flush of crimson passed over her face, and I saw her lips move, but the syllables died ere they were uttered. She continued for a moment gazing on me, pale, and trembling; and then at last she fell upon my neck and wept—not audibly—but I felt her tears.

Athanasia was still folded to my bosom in that strange agony of sorrow and of confidence, when Silo, the jailer, entered the apartment, abrupt and breathless.

“Oh, sir!” said he, “your sufferings are mine—but it is necessary that you should leave us, and on the instant, for the Prefect is already at the gate, and unquestionably he will examine every part of the prison; and should you be recognized as the person who was taken in the Mausoleum, you see plainly to what suspicions it might give rise. Come then, sir, and let me secure your escape—we shall take care to warn you of whatever occurs, and we shall send for you, if there be opportunity.”

Athanasia recovered herself almost instantly, when she heard what Silo said.

“We shall meet again,” said I.

“Once more,” she replied—“at least once more, Valerius.”

And I tore myself away from her; and the jailer having once again committed me to the guidance of his child, I was in a few moments conducted to the same postern by which I had been introduced. In a word, I found myself in the court of the Capitol, at the instant when the Prefect, with all his attendants, was entering by the main gate of the Mammertine.

_CHAPTER IV._

On reaching home, I was told that Licinius was still absent; and found at the same time a billet upon the table, which informed me that Sabinus had carried Sextus with him to his quarters, and that both expected I would join them there immediately upon my return. I knew not how to refuse compliance, and yet I could not bear the thought of being so far from the Capitol, in case of any message being sent to me from the prison. Since I could do no better, however, I charged Boto to remain in my apartment till sunset, and bring me, without delay, any letter or messenger that might arrive in my absence. Should none such appear within that space, I gave him a note, which I desired him to deliver into the hands of Silo; and having, as I thought, furnished him with sufficient directions how to discharge this commission, I myself took the path to the Prætorian Camp, where I thought it very probable that I might gather some new intelligence as to Cotilius.

The Prætorian who had accompanied Sabinus at my release from the rustic tower, recognized me at the gate, and conducted me immediately to the Centurion, who, to my surprise and displeasure, had directed that I should be ushered without delay to, not his own apartment, but the general table. Here I was received most courteously, however, and hoping the feast was nearly over, took my place near my friend.

Several of those high-fed warriors who had more than once disposed of the empire, were reclining upon rich couches around the board; and their effeminate exterior would, perhaps, have made them less formidable in my eyes, had I not remembered the youth of the great Cæsar, the Parthian retreat of Antony, and the recent death of Otho.(3) There were present, besides, a few casual visiters like ourselves; among others, a sleek Flamen, who reclined on the right hand of the presiding Tribune, and a little bald Greek, who seemed to think it incumbent upon himself to fill up every pause in the conversation, by malicious anecdotes or sarcasms, of which last it was easy to see that the Flamen opposite was a favourite subject. Neither wit nor impiety, however, could make speedy impression upon the smooth-faced Flamen, who seemed to think, if one might judge from his behaviour, that the most acceptable service he could render to the deities, was to do full and devout justice to the gifts of their benevolence.

A very animated discussion concerning the review of the newly-arrived cohorts, (which, I have told you, had taken place that morning by the river side,) relieved for some time the patient Flamen from the attacks of this irreverent person, and engaged the zealous participation of those who had hitherto been the most silent of the company. Sabinus, among the rest, was ready with a world of remarks upon the equipments, the manœuvres, the merits, and the demerits of the troops in question; but something he said was quite at variance with the sentiments of one of his brother Centurions, who disputed with him rather warmly than successfully for a few moments, and at last ended with saying,—“But why should I take so much trouble to discuss the point with you, who, we all know, were thinking of other matters, and saw not much more of the review than if you had been a hundred miles off from it?”

The Centurion coloured a little, and laughed, as it seemed to me, with rather less heartiness than usual; but the disputant pursuing his advantage, said, “Yes, you may laugh if you will; but do you think we are all blind, or do you suppose we are not acquainted with certain particulars? Well, some people dislike the Suburra, but for my part I agree with Sabinus; I think it is one of the genteelest places in Rome, and that there are some of the snuggest houses in it too—and if old men will die, for me, I protest, I don’t see why young men should not succeed them.” The Centurion laughed again, and natural ruddiness of complexion was, I thought, scarcely quite sufficient to account for the flush on his countenance, as he listened to these innuendos. But the master of the feast cut the matter short, by saying that he had a health to propose, and that he expected all present should receive it with honour.—“Here,” said he, “is to the fair lady Rubellia, who is never absent when the Prætorians turn out, and may all things fair and fortunate attend her now and hereafter.” I whispered to Sabinus,—“My friend, I think you have really some reason for blushing. If you had no pity on Xerophrastes, you might at least have had some for the pretty widow.”

He made no answer to this, and looked, if possible, more confused than ever; but, just at that moment, a soldier came in, and delivered a billet to the presiding Tribune, who handed it to Sabinus immediately after he had read it, and said, loud enough to be heard by all those who sate near him, “I wish the Prince would give some of this work to these new comers. But, indeed, I wonder what Lictors are good for now-a-days; but every thing that these Christians are any way concerned in seems to be a matter of importance.”

Sabinus, having read the billet, handed it back again to the Tribune, and said aloud, “_Exit_ Cotilius!—Who would not be of the chorus at the falling of that curtain?”

The Tribune shrugged his shoulders, whispered something into the ear of the messenger, and then, dashing more wine into his cup, said, “Rome will never be a quiet place, nor the Prætorian helmet a comfortable head-piece, till these barbarians be extirpated.”

The Flamen tossed off a full goblet, and, smiting with his hand upon the table, said, “There spake a true Roman, and a worshipper of the Gods. I rejoice to find that there is still some religion in the world; for, what with skulking Jews on the one hand, and bold blasphemous Cyrenæans on the other, so help me Jupiter, the general prospect is dark enough!”

“In my opinion,” quoth the bald Greek, putting on an air of some gravity, “the Jews will have the better of the Cyrenæans. Indeed, I should not be much surprised to see this Christian superstition supplant every other.” The Flamen half started from his couch. “You observe, gentlemen,” proceeded the Greek,—“what great advantage any new superstition has over any thing of the same sort that is old. We all know, for example, that Isis and Cybele have for many years past left comparatively few worshippers to Mars, Apollo,—even to Jupiter. It is lamentable; but it is true. I have heard that unless on some very great day, a gift is now quite a rarity upon the altar of any of the true ancient deities of Rome. Egypt and Mount Ida have done this; and why should not Palestine succeed as well as either? In the meantime, the enlightened contemplate every different manifestation of the superstitious principle with equal indifference; and, I confess to you, I have been a little surprised to perceive how far Trajan is from imitating their example. But that Chæronæan master of his, that Plutarch, was always an old woman; and I fear the Prince has not been able to shake off the impression of his ridiculous stories.”

“Hush!” quoth the master of the day, “if it please you, nothing can be said here against either Trajan or his friends; and, as for Plutarch, he was one of the pleasantest fellows that I ever met with.”

Sabinus, desirous of restoring the harmony of the assembly, called forthwith on a musical senior, to join him in a song. The gentleman required solicitation, but at last announced his consent to attempt the female part in the duet of Horace and Lydia. Sabinus, always ready, began to roar out the tender words of regret and expostulation which the most elegant of poets has ascribed to himself; and the delicate squeaking response of our wrinkled Lydia formed an agreeable contrast.

All, in short, were once more in perfect good humour, when another soldier appeared behind the couch of the president, and handed to him what seemed to be another billet of the same complexion. He tossed the paper as before to my friend, who looked very serious as he read it.—“Caius,” he whispered, “an additional guard is ordered to the Palatine—and the reason is said to be that the rest of the Christian prisoners are to be examined, within an hour, by the Emperor himself.”

I had scarcely had a moment to compose myself, when one of the slaves in attendance signified that a person wished to speak with me in the anti-chamber. It was Dromo.—“Sir,” said he, “I have no time for explanation. Silo wishes to see you—I left Boto with him at the Mammertine.”

As we walked from the camp, Sabinus, with his guard, passed without noticing me; and I received some explanations which I must give to you very briefly. Boto, mistrusting his recollection of my instructions, had requested Dromo to assist him in finding his way to the Mammertine; and the Cretan had come to be witness of a scene, which, in spite of his sarcastic disposition, he could not narrate without tokens of sympathy. I mentioned to you that my faithful slave, in coming with me to Rome, had indulged the hope of meeting once more with a brother, who many years before had been carried off from Britain. I smiled when the poor man expressed confidence that he should find out this ere he had been many days in the metropolis of the world. But now, in truth, a fortunate accident had recompensed much ill-regulated search. He had found his brother, and he had found him in the Mammertine. That very brother was Silo, to whose kindness I, and one dearer than myself, had been so deeply indebted. The Cretan, himself a slave and an exile, had partaken in the feelings of the long-lost brothers, and hastened to bring me from the camp, that Boto might be spared the pain of immediately parting from Silo.

_CHAPTER V._

I had hurried along the darkening streets, and up the ascent of the Capitoline, scarce listening to the story of the Cretan. On reaching the summit, we found the courts about the Temple of Jupiter already occupied by detachments of foot. I hastened to the Mammertine—and before the postern opened to admit us, the Prætorian squadron had drawn up at the great gate. Sabinus beckoned me to him. “Caius,” said he, stooping on his horse, “would to heaven I had been spared this duty! Cotilius comes forth this moment, and then we go back to the Palatine; and I fear—I fear we are to guard thither your Athanasia. If you wish to enter the prison, quicken your steps.”

We had scarcely entered the inner-court, ere Sabinus also, and about a score of his Prætorians, rode into it. Silo and Boto were standing together; and both had already hastened towards me; but the jailer, seeing the Centurion, was constrained to part from me with one hurried word:—“Pity me, for I also am most wretched. But you know the way—here, take this key—hasten to my dear lady, and tell her what commands have come.”