Part 22
Alas! I said I to myself, of what tidings am I doomed ever to be the messenger!—but she was alone; and how could I shrink from any pain that might perhaps alleviate hers? I took the key, glided along the corridors, and stood once more at the door of the chamber in which I had parted from Athanasia. No voice answered to my knock; I repeated it three times, and then, agitated with indistinct apprehension, hesitated no longer to open it. No lamp was burning within the chamber, but from without there entered a wavering glare of deep saffron-coloured light, which shewed me Athanasia extended on her couch. Its ominous and troubled hue had no power to mar the image of her sleeping tranquillity. I hung over her for a moment, and was about to disturb that slumber—perhaps the last slumber of peace and innocence—when the chamber-walls were visited with a yet deeper glare. “Caius,” she whispered, as I stepped from beside the couch; “why do you leave me? stay, Valerius.” I looked back, but her eye-lids were still closed; the same calm smile was upon her dreaming lips. The light streamed redder and more red. All in an instant became as quiet without as within. I approached the window, and saw Cotilius standing in the midst of the court; Sabinus and Silo near him; the horsemen drawn up on either side, and a soldier close behind resting upon an unsheathed sword. I saw the keen blue eye as fierce as ever. I saw that the blood was still fervid in his cheeks: for the complexion of this man was of the same bold and florid brightness so uncommon in Italy, which you have seen represented in the pictures of Sylla, and even the blaze of the torches seemed to strive in vain to heighten its natural scarlet. The soldier had lifted his sword, and my eye was fixed, as by fascination, when suddenly a deep voice was heard amidst the deadly silence—“Cotilius!—look up, Cotilius!”
Aurelius, the Christian priest, standing at an open window, not far distant from that at which I was placed, stretched forth his fettered hand as he spake:—“Cotilius! I charge thee, look upon the hand from which the blessed water of baptism was cast upon thy head. I charge thee, look upon me, and say, ere yet the blow be given, upon what hope thy thoughts are fixed?—Is this sword bared against the rebel of Cæsar, or a martyr of Jesus?—I charge thee, speak; and for thy soul’s sake speak truly.”
A bitter motion of derision passed over his lips, and he nodded, as if impatiently, to the Prætorian. Instinctively I turned me from the spectacle, and my eye rested again upon the couch of Athanasia—but not upon the vision of her tranquillity. The clap with which the corpse fell upon the stones had, perhaps, reached the sleeping ear, and we know with what swiftness thoughts chase thoughts in the wilderness of dreams. So it was that she started at the very moment when the blow was given; and she whispered—for it was still but a deep whisper—“Spare me, Trajan, Cæsar, Prince—have pity on my youth—strengthen, strengthen me good Lord!—Fie! fie! we must not lie to save life. Felix—Valerius—come close to me, Caius—Fie! let us remember we are Romans—’Tis the trumpet——”
The Prætorian trumpet sounded the march in the court below, and Athanasia, starting from her sleep, gazed wildly around the reddened chamber. The blast of the trumpet was indeed in her ear—and Valerius hung over her—but after a moment the cloud of the broken dream passed away, and the maiden smiled as she extended her hand to me from the couch, and began to gather up the ringlets that floated all down upon her shoulder. She blushed and smiled mournfully, and asked me hastily whence I came, and for what purpose I had come; but before I could answer, the glare that was yet in the chamber seemed anew to be perplexing her: and she gazed from me to the red walls, and from them to me again: and then once more the trumpet was blown, and Athanasia sprung from her couch. I know not in what terms I was essaying to tell her what was the truth, but I know that ere I had said many words, she discovered my meaning. For a moment she looked deadly pale, in spite of all the glare of the torch-beams; but she recovered herself, and said in a voice that sounded almost as if it came from a light heart,—“But Caius, I must not go to Cæsar, without having at least a garland on my head. Stay here, Valerius, and I shall be ready anon—quite ready.”
It seemed to me as if she were less hasty than she had promised, yet many minutes elapsed not ere she returned. She plucked a blossom from her hair as she drew near to me, and said, “Take it: you must not refuse one token more; this also is a sacred gift. Caius, you must learn never to look upon it without kissing these red streaks—these blessed streaks of the Christian flower.”
I took the flower from her hand, and pressed it to my lips; and I remembered that the very first day I saw Athanasia, she had plucked such an one, when apart from all the rest, in the gardens of Capito. I told her what I remembered; and it seemed as if the little circumstance had called up all the image of peaceful days; for once more sorrowfulness gathered upon her countenance. If the tear was ready, however, it was not permitted to drop; and Athanasia returned again to her flower.
“Do you think there are any of them in Britain?” said she; “or do you think that they would grow there? You must go to my dear uncle, and he will not deny you, when you tell him that it is for my sake he is to give you some of his. They call it the Passion-flower—’tis an emblem of an awful thing. Caius, these purple streaks are like trickling drops; and here, look ye, they are all round the flower. Is it not very like a bloody crown upon a pale brow? I will take one of them in my hand, too, Caius; and methinks I shall not disgrace myself when I look upon it, even though Trajan should be frowning upon me.”
I had not the heart to interrupt her; but heard silently all she said, and I thought she said the words quickly and eagerly, as if she feared to be interrupted.
The old priest came into the chamber while she was yet speaking so, and said very composedly, “Come, my dear child, our friend has sent again for us, and the soldiers have been waiting already some space, who are to convey us to the Palatine. Come, children, we must part for a moment—perhaps it may be but for a moment—and Valerius may remain here till we return to him. Here, at least, dear Caius, you shall have the earliest tidings, and the surest.”
The good man took Athanasia by the hand, and she, smiling now at length more serenely than ever, said only, “Farewell, then, Caius, for a little moment!” And so, drawing her veil over her face, she passed away from before me, giving, I think, more support to the ancient Aurelius than, in her turn, she received from him. I began to follow them, but the priest waved his hand as if to forbid me:—the door closed after them, and I was alone.
_CHAPTER VI._
I know not, my friends, how to proceed with the narrative of what followed. Thoughts, passions, fears, hopes, succeeding so rapidly, give to that strange night, when I look back upon it through the vista of years, the likeness of some incoherent, agonizing dream. Much, without doubt, of what passed within my own mind I have forgotten; but it seems to me as if what I saw or heard were still present in the distinctness of reality. That chamber in the Mammertine! Its walls are before me blazing with the reflection of torch-light, and then again, all dim and shadowy—the stars shining feebly upon them from the twilight sky—every thing around lonely and silent, except the voice of Silo’s little maiden,—bewailing no doubt in her privacy the departure of Athanasia.
Her father after a little time rejoined me. “Sir,” said he, “all is now quiet here; will you walk with me towards the Palatine, that we may at least be near to know what is reported of their proceedings? My brother will stay here till we return.”
We soon had descended from the Capitoline, passed through the silent Forum, and gained the brow of the opposite eminence, where, as shortly before at the Mammertine, all was light and tumult. Every court was guarded with soldiery, and groups of busy men were passing continually about the imperial gates and porticos. Silo led me round and round the buildings, till we reached what seemed an abandoned wing. “Sir,” said he, “you do not know more familiarly the house in which you were born and reared, than I do every corner within these wide walls. But I have not crossed the threshold since the day Cæsar died.—I was the slave of Domitian, and he gave me my freedom.—He was kind to his household.”
We entered beneath a small portico—and Silo drew a key from his bosom. The lock, after two or three trials, yielded to its pressure. A large empty hall received us, the circumference of which was scarcely visible by the light of the newly-risen moon, streaming down from a cupola.
Another and another sombre chamber we in like manner traversed, till at length Silo opened one so comparatively light, that I started back, apprehending we had intruded farther than he intended. A second glance, however, seemed to indicate that we were still in the region of desolation, for a statue lay in the midst of the floor, one of its limbs snapped over, as if it had fallen and been permitted to remain.
“Where are we, Silo?” I whispered, “what means this unnatural light among so many symptoms of confusion?”
“Sir,” said the freedman, “this is the place in which alone Domitian used to eat and sleep, and walk about for the last months of his life, when he was jealous of all men; and he contrived these walls, covered all over with the shining Ethiopian stone, that no one might be able to approach him without being discovered. Even when a slave entered, he would start as if every side of the chamber had been invaded by some host of men; fifty different reflections of one trembling eunuch. It was, they say, behind this shattered piece of marble that he ran when he had felt the first treacherous blow. Yonder in the corner is the couch he slept upon, and he had always a dagger under his head, and he called to the little page that was waiting upon him to fetch it from the place; but the scabbard only remained; and then in came Parthenius and Claudianus, and the gladiator, and the rest, who soon finished what the cunning Stephanus had begun. Let us go on;—we have not yet reached the place to which I wished to bring you—but it is not far off now.”
With this Silo walked to the end of the melancholy chamber, and pressing upon a secret spring, where no door was apparent, opened the way into a room, darker and smaller than any of those through which we had come. He then said to me, “Now, sir, you must not venture upon one whisper more—you touch on the very heart of Domitian’s privacy. It is possible that the place I have been leading you to may have been shut up—it may exist no longer; but the state in which all things are found here makes me think it more likely that Trajan has never been master of its secret. And in that case, we shall be able both to see and to hear, without being either seen or heard, exactly as Domitian used to do, when there was any council held either in the Mars or the Apollo.”
I started at the boldness of the project which now, for the first time, I understood; but Silo laid his finger on his lip again,—cautiously lifted up a piece of the dark-red cloth with which this chamber was hung,—and essayed another spring in the pannelling beneath. Total darkness appeared to be beyond; but the jailer motioning to me to remain for a moment where I was, and to keep up the hanging, glided boldly into the recess. I wondered how he should tread so lightly, that I could not perceive the least echo; but this no longer surprised me, when I had the sign to follow. The floor felt beneath my foot as if it were stuffed like a pillow; and, after I had dropped the hanging, every thing was totally dark, as it had at first appeared to me, except only at certain points, separate and aloft, which let in gleams of light, manifestly artificial. Silo, taking hold of me by the hand, conducted me up some steps towards the nearest of these tiny apertures; and, as I approached it, I heard distinctly the voices of persons talking together in the room beyond. I did not draw my breath, you may well believe, with much boldness; but my eye was soon fixed at one of the crevices, and, after the first dazzle was over, I saw clearly. Silo took his station by my side, gazing through another of these loop-holes, which, that you may understand every thing, were evidently quite concealed among the rich carved-work of an ivory cornice.
The chamber was lighted by three tall candelabra of silver, close beside one of which was placed a long table covered with an infinity of scrolls and tablets. One person, who had his back turned towards us, was writing, and two others, in one of whom I instantly recognized the Emperor, were walking up and down on the other side.
“No, Palma,” said Trajan, for it was that old favourite whom he addressed—“I have made up my mind as to this matter. I shall never permit any curious inquisition as to private opinion. Every man has a right, without question, to think—to believe—exactly what pleases him; and I shall concede as much in favour of every woman, Palma, if you will have it so. But it is totally a different affair, when the fact, no matter how, is forced upon my knowledge, that a subject, no matter who or what he be—a subject of the Roman empire, refuses to comply with the first, the elemental, and the most essential of the laws. The man—aye or the woman—that confesses in my presence contempt for the deities whom the commonwealth acknowledges in every step of its procedure—that person is a criminal; and I cannot dismiss him unpunished, without injuring the commonwealth by the display of weakness in its chief. As for these poor fanatics themselves, it is the penalty of my station that I must control my feelings.”
“But you are satisfied, my lord,” said Palma, “that these people are quite innocent as to Cotilius’s designs; and as it was upon that suspicion they were apprehended, perhaps it may be possible——”
“Yes, Palma,” interrupted the Prince; “quite possible and quite easy, provided they will condescend to save themselves by the most trivial acknowledgment of the sort which, I repeat to you, I do and must consider as absolutely necessary. And women too—and girls forsooth—I suppose you would have me wait till the very urchins on the street were gathering into knots to discuss the nature of the Gods.—Do you remember what Plato says?”—
“No, my lord, I do not know to what you refer.”
“Why, Plato says that nobody can ever understand any thing accurately about the Deity, and that, if he could, he would have no right to communicate his discoveries to others; the passage is in the Timæus, and Tully has translated it besides. And is it to be endured that these modest fanatics are to do every hour what the Platos and the Ciceros spoke of in such terms as these? I think you carry your tolerance a little farther than might have been expected from a disciple of the Academy.”
“I despise them, my lord, as much as yourself; but, to tell you the truth, it is this young lady that moves me to speak thus—and I crave your pardon, if I have spoken with too much freedom.—Her father was one of the best soldiers Titus had.”
“The more is the pity, Palma. Have you ever seen the girl yourself? Did you give orders that she should be brought hither? I have not the least objection that you should have half an hour, or an hour if you will, to talk with her quietly; perhaps your eloquence may have the effect we desire.”
“I doubt it, my lord, I greatly doubt it,” he replied; “but, indeed, I know not whether she be yet here—Did you not send to the Mammertine?”
The man writing at the table, to whom this interrogation was addressed, said, “I believe, sir, both this lady and the old man that was in the same prison are now in attendance.” And upon this Trajan and Palma retired together towards the farther end of the apartment, where they conversed for some minutes in a tone so low, that I could not understand any thing of what was said. Trajan at length turned from his favourite with an air, as I thought, of some little displeasure, and said aloud, coming back into the middle of the room,—“I know it is so; but what is that to the affair in hand? I am very sorry for the Sempronii, but I doubt if even they would be so unreasonable as you are.”
“Will you not see the poor girl yourself, Cæsar?”
“You do not need to be told, that my seeing her would only make it more difficult for me to do that, which, seeing or not seeing her, I know to be my duty. Do you accept of my proposal? Are you willing to try the effect of your own persuasion? I promise you, if you succeed, I shall rejoice not less heartily than yourself; but it is rather too much to imagine that I am personally to interfere about such an affair as this—an affair which, the more I think of it, seems to me to be the more perfectly contemptible. Nay, do not suppose it is this poor girl I am talking of—I mean the whole of this Jewish, this Christian affair, which does indeed appear to me to be the most bare-faced absurdity, that ever was permitted to disturb the tranquillity of the empire. A mean and savage nation have but just suffered the penalty of obstinacy and treachery alike unequalled, and from them—from the scattered embers of this extinguished fire, we are to allow a new flame to be kindled—ay, and that in the very centre of Rome. I tell you, that if my own hand were to be scorched in the cause, I would disperse this combustion to the winds of heaven; I tell you, that I stand here Cæsar, and that I would rather be chained to the oar, than suffer, while the power to prevent it is mine, the tiniest speck to be thrown upon the Roman majesty. By all the Gods, Palma, it is enough to make a man sick to think of the madness that is in this world, and of the iron arguments by which we are compelled to keep those from harming us, that at first sight of them excite no feeling but our pity. But I am weary of these very names of Palestine—Jew—Christian. Go to this foolish girl, and try what you can make of her; I give you fair warning—no breeders of young Christians here.”
_CHAPTER VII._
Cornelius Palma, after the Prince retired, was apparently for some space busied with his reflections. He then talked in a whispering manner with the secretary, and moved towards an extremity of the chamber. But the moment Silo perceived this, he plucked my sleeve, and drew me to the other end of our closet, where, as I have told you, the light had admittance in a similar manner. Here another of the imperial apartments was visible in equal distinctness; and in it appeared Athanasia and her friend, as waiting now at length in entire composure the moment when they should be summoned.
Palma entering, both rose, and he, returning their salutation, remained before them for a moment in silence, his eyes fixed on Athanasia. It was to Aurelius, nevertheless, that his first words were addressed:—“From what has been reported of your behaviour at the execution of Cotilius, I fear there is nothing to be gained by speaking to _you_, concerning the only means by which your own safety can yet be secured. You are obstinate, old man, in your superstition?”—“Noble Palma,” said the priest, “contempt is the only thing I fear from men. But I thank my God, that it is the only thing I have it in my power to avoid.”—“I will not argue with you,” answered Palma, pointing to a door near him:—“It was not with any purpose of bending you, that I undertook this painful office. I desire to speak in freedom with one whose case is, I trust, less hopeless.”
The old man, pointing to his fetters, said meekly, “Let them guard me whither it pleases you.”
“Sir,” said Athanasia, “I pray you let Aurelius remain; imagine not that I shall either hear or answer less freely because of my friend’s presence.”
“He will, at least, retire to the other end of the chamber,” said Palma—“and interfere no farther.”
The priest drew back;—Athanasia, on her part, seeing that Palma hesitated, and seemed at a loss how to begin, said to him in a tone of modest composure:—“Noble sir, if your purpose be indeed as kind as I think it is, I pray you spare me at least the pain that is needless, and spare yourself what I am sure is painful to you. You see my youth and my sex, and it is not unnatural for you to think as you do; but know that my faith is fixed, and that I hope I shall not be deserted, when I strive even at the last moment to do it no dishonour.”
“This gray beard,” said Palma, “has made you, then, thoroughly a Christian?”
“I would it were so,” she answered—“I would to God it were so!”
“Lady,” resumed Palma, “we have knowledge both of your father’s high character, and of your own amiable dispositions. If you persist in this manner, you will give grief to Cæsar; and as for your family, have you yet seriously considered into what misery they must be plunged?”
“Sir,” she replied, “this is cruel kindness. I have considered all things.”
“Young maiden,” continued Palma, “the touch of the physician’s knife is painful, yet his hand must not falter. But I have sent for those, who, I hope, may speak more effectually.”
The Senator turned from the pedestal on which he had been leaning, and walked to the door over against where Aurelius was sitting: and after a moment had elapsed, there entered, even as I had anticipated, both her uncles, Lucius and Velius. Behind them came, wrapped in her consecrated veil, the Priestess of Apollo; and last of all, gazing wildly around, her apparel disordered, the friend of her youth, the sister of her bosom,—she to whom in all things, save one, Athanasia’s heart had ever been laid open. The two Patricians advanced, deeply dejected, towards the place where Athanasia stood waiting their approach. The stately Priestess, walking yet more slowly, lifted the veil from her face, which was pale and calm as marble. But when the youthful companion at last rested her eye upon her friend, and the fettered hands clasped together on that bosom, she rushed past them all, and was folded in a cold embrace; for though Athanasia pressed Sempronia to her bosom, I saw also that she trembled from head to foot, and that her eyes were riveted on those who approached with seriousness more terrible than the passion of young sympathy.
“Athanasia,” said Lucius, taking her by the hand, “look not upon us thus; we come as to a daughter.”
“Dearest,” said old Velius, “listen to thy true friends. Do you put more faith in the words of strangers than in the blood of kindred—the affection of your father’s brothers—the guardians of his dear orphan?”
“Wo is me!” said Athanasia—“O God, strengthen me! Why, oh, why am I forced to wound these kind hearts! Have pity upon me, have pity upon me—you know not what you speak of, else you would all be silent.”
“Weep,” said the Priestess; “weep, and weep largely. There is yet time to repent. Abjure this madness; let the last of your tears be shed upon the altars of your paternal Gods, and they also will be merciful. Nay, tremble not when you hear my voice, Athanasia. I love you as tenderly as the rest, and if you have deceived me also, I have long since pardoned.”
The Priestess kissed her forehead; and she bowed her head, weeping at length audibly. But Athanasia speedily recovered herself, and gently removing the hands of Sempronia, stood erect again in the midst.