Rome, immortal Rome! the capital of the greatest and most despotic of governments, whether democratic, imperial, or clerical, that ever this world has known; the fountain-head of the mightiest and most pervading power that ever has been exercised on earth! Rome, immortal Rome! the heart of the whole world during centuries of glory, from which issued forth, poured through a thousand veins and arteries, the impulses of civilization to the remotest points of her mighty limbs! Rome, immortal Rome! wonderful in her rise, her duration, and her fall! Wonderful in her splendour, wonderful in her decay! Even when the time shall come that men pass the ploughshare over her walls, or that the beasts of the field find grass in her desolate dwelling-places, still shall she remain immortal in history and tradition; still shall she walk the earth among the spirits of the past, exercising over the destinies of unnumbered ages an unseen influence through the record of her marvellous deeds! Rome, gigantic spectre, still haunting the ruins of the greatest empire that the world has ever seen! Rome, from which arts, and knowledge, and power, and religion have flowed to distant ages as from a source; but which--oh, strange to say!--has ever presented in herself the spectacle of anarchy, vice, and irreligion; and which stood forth from the whole world as the darkest and most polluted spot through many centuries and for many crimes. Rome, immortal Rome! We must now bend our steps through Rome.
It was on a spring holyday, in one of the brightest months of the year, ere summer had brought her burning heat, and after winter had lost his chilling frown. The vegetable world was all in flower, and nature, like an April bride, was crowned with garlands. The sky was all in smiles; the air was all balm; and the whole of a soft and pleasure-seeking population was pouring forth into the streets, or thronging the public places of the city, which had once been, indeed, the queen of empires, and was still majestic, though her reign was over.
Some show or some amusement, some procession or some festival, called the gay multitude forth towards the forum; and oh, how merrily, as they went along, did the laugh ring up into the sky--did the gay song or the loud jest echo through the streets.
Among the number who took their way onward through one of the long narrow streets, were two girls carrying a basket of flowers between them, and thus singing as they went of the sweet burden they bore.
FLOWER GIRLS' SONG.Oh, the flowers of spring! the sweet-smelling flowers,Gay-robed companions of life's happy hours:They have come again to visit us here;They have come hand in hand with the young bright year.Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,In garlands we twined them in infancy's hours;And every blossom we strung on the wreathWas like the sweet moments that flew beneath.Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,They have wreathed the door-posts of love's own bowers;They have given their breath to the lover's sigh,And their hues to the loved one's cheek and eye.Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,Fed with May sunshine and bathed with spring showers;When you have babes, as soon you may,Let them sport with flowers through their young bright day.Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,When manhood puts forth his mightiest powers;Each noble thing does its wreath require,The warrior's sword and the poet's lyre.Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,They are dear to us still when old age lours;We gaze on the blossoms that spring at our feet,And the perfume of mem'ry rises sweet.Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,They have still their charm for all life's hours;And when at length in the tomb we are laid,Let our last bed of flowers be made.Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,Where saw you flowers so fair as ours?They are sweet to the scent, and bright to the eye,Oh, take them before they fade or die.Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers![3]
Oh, the flowers of spring! the sweet-smelling flowers,
Gay-robed companions of life's happy hours:
They have come again to visit us here;
They have come hand in hand with the young bright year.
Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!
Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,In garlands we twined them in infancy's hours;And every blossom we strung on the wreathWas like the sweet moments that flew beneath.
Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!
Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,They have wreathed the door-posts of love's own bowers;They have given their breath to the lover's sigh,And their hues to the loved one's cheek and eye.
Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!
Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,Fed with May sunshine and bathed with spring showers;When you have babes, as soon you may,Let them sport with flowers through their young bright day.
Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!
Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,When manhood puts forth his mightiest powers;Each noble thing does its wreath require,The warrior's sword and the poet's lyre.
Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!
Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,They are dear to us still when old age lours;We gaze on the blossoms that spring at our feet,And the perfume of mem'ry rises sweet.
Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!
Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,They have still their charm for all life's hours;And when at length in the tomb we are laid,Let our last bed of flowers be made.
Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!
Oh, the flowers of spring! the beautiful flowers,Where saw you flowers so fair as ours?They are sweet to the scent, and bright to the eye,Oh, take them before they fade or die.
Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers![3]
So sung the flower-girls, as, carrying between them their basket, heavy with the rifled treasures of the spring, they walked on among the crowd, selling from time to time a wreath or a nosegay. The passers-by, however, unembarrassed with any burden, were more rapid in their movements. The crowd became thinner and thinner as the more early hurried on. Scattered groups succeeded, hastening forward with an accelerated pace, lest they should be too late, or gain but bad places at the show; and at length the numbers were so diminished as to leave the street nearly vacant; while the girls themselves, finding that they had been outstripped by their customers, hurried their pace as fast as they could, in order to find a new market, where the multitudes were assembled.
At the time when the street was the thinnest of people, however, the trampling of horses, coming at a quick pace, was heard, and both the girls turned round to look, the one exclaiming, "It is the bishop, I am sure," and the other replying, "No, it is the quæstor by the number of horses: the bishop always goes in his chariot, foolish girl."
"Wrong, both of us," rejoined the first; "it is but a large troop of barbarians."
"Oh, they will buy our flowers, then," cried the other. "I dare say they are from Ætius's army; and the barbarians always spend their money as fast as they get it."
As they thus spoke, the troop which called forth these observations approached; and the two girls--one of them was remarkably pretty, and the other thought herself so--turned their faces, with an air of modesty which it is possible they did not really possess, towards the point straight before them, and taking up again the burden of their song, "Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers!" they went on carolling gayly as the strangers came near.
He who rode at their head was a young man of about two-and-twenty, dressed in the Roman costume; but those who followed were clothed, though with some appearance of splendour, in the wilder garb of the Huns. Riding up, the young stranger stopped his horse by the side of the first flower girl, who instantly held up a bunch of very beautiful blossoms, singing on, with an air of sportive coquetry, "Oh, flowers! Buy my flowers." Theodore, for he it was, took the flowers, and gave her a piece of money, saying, at the same time, "Canst thou tell me, pretty lass, where dwells Julius Lentulus. His house used to be here, methinks; but it is long since I saw it, and where I thought it stood appears nothing but a high wall."
"True, beautiful youth," replied the girl--"true, his house stood there: but Valentinian wanted the land to make a fishpond of; so he pulled down the house, and Julius Lentulus was obliged to remove; and now dwells farther up, at the side of the Aventine. The emperor, however, betook himself to Ravenna; the fishpond was never made, and the edile had the ground walled up; for he dare not give it back to Julius Lentulus for fear of the emperor."
"Canst thou not direct me more exactly," demanded Theodore; "for I wish to find the house instantly."
"Ay! now I warrant thee," answered the girl, "thou art seeking the pretty Eudochia: often does she buy flowers of me when I go by the Aventine. Ay! I warrant thee, some old lover of hers; for I remember, when she came back from exile in the barbarian land herself, some two or three years ago. But alas! fair youth, thou hast a rival--nay, not one for that matter, but a hundred, though only one that is dangerous."
"Pray who is that?" replied Theodore, with a smile, which encouraged the girl to run on.
"As fair a youth as any in the imperial city," answered the girl: "she calls him her brother Ammian; but once, as I rested in the gardens of their villa without the walls, I saw their lips meet as brothers and sisters rarely do meet; and I found afterward that there was no such near blood between them."
Theodore's cheek reddened from feelings that would be difficult, and are unnecessary to define. "Alas, poor youth!" continued the girl--"alas, poor youth, I am sorry for thee! but these things must be borne, sweet heart, and thou wilt soon find thee another bride."
"Thou art mistaken, pretty lass," replied Theodore: "Eudochia is my sister, and Ammian I love as a brother; but have you no news of the Lady Flavia and--"
"Ha, ha, I have thee now!" cried the girl; "thou wouldst ask after the fair Ildica. Thou art safe, then, stranger, thou art safe. She lives as a nun, and keeps her maiden beauties from the searching eyes of admiration. Seldom have I even seen her, but she is very beautiful. Thou wilt find her, too, by the Aventine; and if thou wouldst know where Ammian is, I could tell thee too."
The girl assumed an air of mystery as she spoke, which excited Theodore's curiosity; and, without appearing to be anxious on the subject, he merely asked, "And where, pray, is that?"
"I do not know whether I will tell or not," answered the girl; "it might cost the pretty boy his life; but thou wilt not repeat it, and may keep him from such follies hereafter. He has gone out," she added, approaching closer to Theodore's horse, and speaking in a lower tone--"he has gone out to see secretly a great sacrifice which is to be offered to Jupiter by the people who dwell at the foot of Pincianus: I saw him going thither as I came along; for I heard that the good old pagans--as we Christians call them--were about to risk their throats for the sake of offering a sacrifice to a god in whom they do not half believe, and I went thither to sell my garlands. As we came back, we saw the young wanderer going thither for sport, and we decked him and his horse out with flowers, as if he were verily to be the sacrifice himself."
"God grant that it may not be so," thought Theodore; but he merely asked, "Are not the laws against these sacrifices very severe here in the West? They are so in the Eastern empire at least."
"Death to every one who beholds them," replied the girl; "but since the emperor has dwelt at Ravenna, people have not been so strict, and one may swear by Jupiter, or even by Venus, without danger. What it will be, now that Valentinian has returned, I cannot tell; but I must on to the palace to sell him flowers, for he will soon be going to join the procession, and the præpositus always buys flowers of me and Claudia for the emperor's own use, he tells us."
Thus saying, she tripped on; while Theodore turned his horse's head towards the Aventine Mount: and, on inquiring for the house of Julius Lentulus, he was directed to a stately but somewhat gloomy edifice, enclosed within its own walls and gardens, and bearing an air of majestic decay, which harmonized but too well with the state of the city and the country. On reaching the gates he asked at once for Flavia; but the old janitor considered him attentively for some moments ere he gave him admission, for the person he inquired for received but few visiters.
"What is your name?" he asked--"what is your name, young lord! I am not going to admit you and all these barbarians to the Lady Flavia, who rarely sees any one. Then that wild youth Ammian has gone forth, and there is no one but the lady and her daughter within."
Beyond the great gates stood the house, with its long colonnade; but planted in the space between were some bushes and low apple-trees, which prevented Theodore from seeing anything but the two steps which raised the portico from the ground, and the lower part of the pillars which composed it. As he looked on, however, he saw a female figure pass along the colonnade; and, though he could not see the face, yet the sight of the small graceful foot that moved the full and floating robe was enough to make his heart beat high.
"I am Theodore, Ancinus," he said. "Let me pass, my good friend. These strangers can wait for me without. I am Theodore, son of Paulinus; I say let me pass."
There was a cry of joy from within; for the tones of that voice had caught the ear of Ildica, and she had paused to listen--there was a cry of joy, a few steps, quick as those of the fawn bounding after its mother over the morning dew, and Ildica was in her lover's arms.
"At length! at length!" she exclaimed, as, twined in his arms and pressed to his heart, she raised those large dark lustrous eyes to his face, swimming with tears sweeter than the happiest smile that ever shone upon the human countenance. "At length, at length, my Theodore, thou art come! Come after two long years and a half. Oh how weary has felt my heart under the passing of that tedious time; and how busy has fancy been with all the dangers and with all the horrors in the storehouses, the wide, dark storehouses of possibility! How I have tortured myself to think why my Theodore did not write; but thou art come, and the clouds are all dispelled."
"Beloved, I did write," replied Theodore. "Twice have I written; but it was under such circumstances that I could hardly hope thou wouldst ever see the characters my hand had traced. Nor have I heard from thee, my Ildica; but I fancied no neglect, no forgetfulness, no change of affection."
"I too wrote, beloved," she answered; "but I wrote only once, because no other occasion presented itself of sending letters to the country of the Huns. Forgetfulness! neglect! change of affection! Oh, Theodore! could anything in life change that which I feel sure death itself can never alter? What have I thought of but thee since last we met? But let us to my mother; let her share our joy."
"That joy will be greater, my beloved, when you hear all," replied the youth; and, still circling her fair form with his arm, while her hand remained clasped in his, he accompanied her back into the house where Flavia sat, unknowing his arrival.
"Joy, dearest mother, joy!" cried Ildica: "here is our Theodore returned."
"Ay, and returned," added Theodore, "never to quit you again! Attila--though I saw that it gave him no slight pain--has freed me from the rest of the term which I had bound myself by promise to remain with him. He has but exacted that I shall never bear arms against his people, nor provoke them to strife with me; for he has a superstition that the first injury inflicted by any of them upon me will be followed by his ruin or his death."
"Happy superstition!" cried Flavia, embracing him: "and so I trust our long sorrows are over, my dear son. We have needed thee much; but now that thou wilt not leave us more, my cares are at an end: and when I have seen thee and my Ildica united for ever, I willingly quit a world of which I have long been weary."
"Quit us not, my mother!" replied Theodore, "quit us not! but remain with us, to behold our happiness and to share it! But oh, let that happiness be made complete as soon as may be. Let no time elapse ere Ildica becomes my own. Till I hold her to my heart, my own dear wife, I shall fear lest every hour that flies may bring some new misfortune to separate us again. Say, Ildica, say, when will you be mine?"
The blood rose in the beautiful girl's cheek, and neck, and brow, spreading through that pure and ivory skin like the blush of dawn upon the snowy heads of the mountains; and feeling how the crimson was mounting in her face, she hid it upon her lover's breast, replying, "When my mother thinks fit."
"To-morrow! oh, to-morrow, dear mother!" cried Theodore.
"Nay, nay," said Flavia, with a smile, "not quite so soon as that! Let it be the following day. What say you, Ildica? Is that too soon?"
"Speak, beloved! speak!" cried Theodore; but she still hid her eyes upon his breast, and yet the soft clasping of her hand upon his told him that she gave no unwilling consent. Feeling that she was much agitated, he sought some other theme to release her mind from its happy burden, till custom should render it lighter to bear.
"She consents, my mother!" he said, "she consents! but where is Eudochia? She must come and share our joy. I wonder she has not yet heard of her brother's return."
"She has gone to the capitol," replied Ildica, raising her head: "there is a splendid sight there to-day; and Ammian sent a messenger to say he had found a place for her where she could see it all."
"Ammian!" exclaimed Theodore: "I heard, as I came along, that he had gone out of the city towards Pincianus."
"Oh no," replied Flavia: "he went to the capitol, and sent both a messenger and a litter for Eudochia, saying that he had found a place for her at the house of Julius Sabinus, otherwise she should not have gone."
But Theodore was not satisfied. Though the words of the flower-girl might be idle words, yet they remained upon memory, and a cloud came over him as of new sorrows approaching. At that moment they heard voices at the door, and one of them speaking with the tones of a woman in loud entreaty. Theodore listened: "I must see him, I must speak with him," cried the voice: "it is not to sell my flowers: it is on business of importance to him himself that I seek to see him. Only tell him I am here, and see whether he will not let me speak with him."
"That is the voice of the flower-girl," cried Theodore, "who told me that Ammian had gone out to Pincianus. Some evil has happened, I fear!"
"Again!" cried Ildica, "again!" and she cast down her dark eyes towards the ground with an expression of deep despondency, as if she asked of the dust from which we rise and to which we fall--"What is this inscrutable fate, that dogs us through existence, never suffering us to know a moment's happiness, without pouring into the cup the bitter drop that turns it all to gall?"
Theodore had in the meantime advanced towards the gate, and was met midway by the flower-girl, with whom he had spoken, and who had now passed the gatekeeper and was hurrying in.
"You told me you were her brother!" she cried, as she met him--"you told me you were her brother! If so, and if you would save her from Valentinian, fly to the palace, quick! They have borne her thither. I saw her carried to the inner court in a litter, and heard her cries and entreaties when she discovered where they were taking her to. If you are her brother, hasten thither quickly with your Huns! You may save her yet; for almost all--guards, attendants, officers--have gone to the show. You may save her yet, perchance--or at least avenge her!"
In a room in the imperial palace, lighted from above, and far removed from any of the chambers usually inhabited by the emperors, upon a luxurious couch of down, covered with crimson, and strewed with the flowers of the hyacinth, whose sweet perfume mingled with that of a thousand other flowers, gave the whole chamber an atmosphere of delicious but overpowering perfume, lay Valentinian, the weak, luxurious, vicious monarch of the West, clothed in a light and floating robe of silk, and with his odour-dropping hair bound effeminate with a fillet twined with flowers.
He seemed to listen eagerly for some sounds; and in a moment or two the trampling of feet, some sobbing cries, and a voice in the tone of expostulation, were heard. The next instant the door of the room--for it was one closed by a door furnished with locks and bolts--was thrown open, and a litter was borne in and set down in the midst of the chamber.
The slaves of Valentinian, for--though not habited in the usual garb of the imperial household--they were but the ministers of his pleasure, instantly withdrew, and, starting from the litter, a lovely girl, terror in her aspect, and her eyes dewed with tears, stood gazing wildly round the room, as if seeking some means of escape. She was yet in her early youth, and modesty and innocence were written in every line of her fair countenance. But neither modesty, nor innocence, nor youth had any effect upon the corrupt and selfish man before her, who, as soon as the slaves were gone, advanced, and taking her hand, endeavoured to sooth her, pouring into her ear all the vile but honeyed words of a consummate corrupter.
Snatching her hand from his, and shrinking back from him into one corner of the room, Eudochia gazed upon him in silent terror, as she would have gazed upon some poisonous serpent suddenly crossing her path. But Valentinian still pursued, exclaiming, "But listen to me, fair Eudochia. It is the emperor seeks your love. It is Valentinian who commands your obedience. The wealth and splendour of a world shall be poured out at your feet, the love of your sovereign shall encircle you with all earth's choicest gifts;" and he went on with words on which we will not dwell to wrong her innocent ear with evil persuasions.
For a time Eudochia gazed in silence, as if terror and horror had deprived her of the use of her intellect; but as Valentinian concluded, and was again approaching her, she suddenly seemed to recollect herself, and, with a quick start forward, cast herself at his feet.
"Hear me, oh emperor!" she cried, "hear me, if there be one spark of noble feeling left in your bosom. If you be a monarch, if you be an emperor, if you be a man, hear me, and set me free! I cannot love you, I ought not to love you, but as a subject loves an emperor. You are already wedded; my heart is already given to another! Wrong not your empress, wrong not me, by seeking love that never can be yours. Let me go! oh, let me go! and show yourself really worthy of your high station. You cannot--surely you will not be the first to violate the laws which you are bound to maintain. How would you punish another were he to treat me even as your slaves have done? Oh let me beseech, let me entreat, let me adjure you, by all you hold sacred, to set me free! Hear me, hear me! Oh, monarch, hear me!"
And with uplifted hands and streaming eyes she went on, urging him to justice and compassion; but even her terror and distress had charms for the base tyrant. He attempted to throw his arms around her; he kissed her fair brow as she kneeled imploring at his feet. But at that act Eudochia felt all the spirit of her race rise up within her, as she saw her prayers unheeded and her appeals to justice only provoking deeper insult. She sprang upon her feet, she freed herself from his arms, she snatched from his girdle, even in the struggle to cast him off, a small Eastern dagger which the weak tyrant wore. "Stand back!" she cried--"stand back! or, by the memory of my father, who died to save his country, I will drive this blade into thy heart, thou Tarquin!"
"Girl, you dare not!" cried Valentinian, drawing back; "you dare not raise your hand against your emperor!"
"All girl as I am, I dare raise my hand against any tyrant on the earth," replied Eudochia, "let him clothe himself with whatsoever name he will. Come not near me, or you die! Tyrant, I am resolved! My honour is as dear to me as life to you! Let me go free, or Valentinian shall this day cease to live and reign!"
"Well, well! thou shalt go!" said the emperor, in a softened tone; "but I must call the slaves, to make them open the door from without. Promise me that thou wilt not strike me as I approach the door."
"I will not," replied Eudochia, "so as you set me free."
"You shall be free," answered Valentinian, moving towards the door--"you shall be free."
But when between Eudochia and the entrance of the room, within a single step of either, he suddenly turned, sprang upon her, wrenched the dagger from her grasp, and casting it on the other side of the couch, exclaimed, "Now, girl! now! what punishment shalt thou undergo for daring to hold a dagger to the breast of thine emperor?"
Eudochia gazed round in hopeless despair. But then came a sound of hasty steps and angry voices; and, with sudden hope rushing through her bosom, she uttered scream after scream, to attract the notice of any one who might be passing near. Valentinian seemed not to have heard or not to heed the sounds, for he pursued his evil course; but while he endeavoured to silence the unhappy object of his passions, the door of the chamber was shaken violently.
The bolts and locks resisted; but another and another blow came crashing upon the woodwork. Valentinian, with a cheek as pale as death, retreated towards the couch, and sought for the dagger, which was the only weapon he had worn. The next moment the door gave way, and the brother of Eudochia, followed by twenty or thirty of the armed Huns, rushed into the chamber. His sword was drawn and bloody in his hand; and stretched across the long passage might be seen the corpse of one of the base instruments of the tyrant's vices, who had dared to resist the passage of the Roman, hastening to the deliverance of his sister.
Theodore caught her in his arms, and Eudochia wept upon his bosom. But such thoughts as had inspired the bosoms of his ancestors were in his heart at that moment, and he gave her little time to weep.
"Are you safe, my sister?" he cried, with his eyes still glaring on Valentinian. "Are you pure! By the memory of our father, I adjure you! are you unpolluted?"
"I am, Theodore! I am!" she answered: "thanks to God and to you, I am!"
"Vile slave!" cried Valentinian, attempting to assume the air of empire; "who are you? How dare you--"
But Theodore cut him short. "Base, effeminate, soulless tyrant!" he answered, "well may you thank God that I arrived in time to save you from the crime you sought to commit! Well may you thank God! for your cowardly and pitiful life had surely been ended here had you succeeded in injuring her; and your soul had been sent to hell burdened with the sin it had just perpetrated."
Valentinian trembled and turned pale, the coward blood forsaking his heated cheek at the stern aspect of the young Roman. He attempted, however, though in a weak and faltering voice, to call for his guards and his officers; but Theodore replied, with a look of withering scorn, "You call in vain, tyrannical disgrace of Rome--you call in vain. The means that you have taken to ensure that your crime should be effected in silence and secrecy, have left you as powerless as the lowest slave in your dominions. All the better and the purer part of your court, sent forth to take part in the procession, have left you alone in this wing of the palace, with none but the slavish ministers of your pleasures near thee. They are in the hands of my followers, except yon rash fool, lying there in his blood who attempted to stop a brother flying to his sister's rescue. Thou art in my power," he added, "to take or leave thy pitiful life as I will; and couldst thou but see how contemptible a thing thou hast made thyself, as thou standest there, quivering with fear and guilt before thine injured subject, shame would surely supply the place of virtue, and thou wouldst blush for the crimes that have degraded thee so low."
"Traitor!" exclaimed Valentinian, with the blood rushing up into his face--"traitor, thou shalt rue this day!"
"Monarch, I shall not," replied Theodore, "were even your power as extended as it is weak and circumscribed; were the Romans found base enough to suffer a tyrant to oppress a citizen for defending a helpless girl, and that girl his sister, you dare not, no, you dare not openly raise a hand against my life. Know that in me you see one whom Attila, at whose very name you tremble, looks upon as his son. Letters are already in thy court announcing my coming, and bidding thee do me justice in all things; and thou darest as soon raise thy hand against me as thou darest offer thy neck to the axe."
"So," cried the base monarch, glad, like all weak minds convicted of crime, to seek revenge in scorn, where they have no refuge in justice, and no power of retaliation--"so thou art one of those degenerate Romans who fight against their country in the ranks of the barbarians!"
"Monarch, thou liest," answered Theodore, boldly. "I have never fought against my country. My sword has never been drawn, my spear has never been pointed against a Roman breast. I have saved the life of Attila; I have saved the life of his son; but I have taken no part in his wars, and defy thee to show that I have ever been guilty of one act against my country. Little, too, would it become thee, oh emperor, to reproach any one for betraying his native land. Hast thou not given tribute to the barbarian? hast thou never sacrificed the innocent to the fury of the Huns? hast thou never encouraged the hordes of Scythia to invade the Roman territories. But I leave thee, oh monarch. My sister is safe. Thy crimes are averted; and, as if clad in a panoply of iron, my innocence defies thy power and scorns thy menaces. Come, Eudochia, come. The litter and the slaves which brought thee hither as the object of a base monarch's passion shall carry thee back as pure as when thou camest."
Throwing his arm round her, but without sheathing the sword he carried in his right hand, lest any opposition should be made to his retreat, Theodore placed her in the litter; and, at a word to some of his followers, the slaves of Valentinian who had borne her thither were brought in, raised their fair burden from the ground, and obeyed at once the young Roman in bearing her away homeward. The dark Huns who had accompanied him surrounded them on every side; and Theodore himself, after casting one more look of mingled scorn and indignation upon the tyrant from whom he had just snatched his prey, followed his sister from the palace without obstruction, and almost without notice, so carefully had Valentinian removed from the precincts of those apartments every one who might behold, or report, or interrupt the commission of the crime he had meditated.
While his own slaves had been compelled to bear Eudochia away, the weak monarch of the West had remained, with impotent fury burning in his bosom, and eyes glaring angrily upon that which he could not prevent. His features had worked, his hands had wrung each other, his colour had varied under the influence of passion like the complexion of a timid girl. He had more than once sought for the hilt of the dagger, too, as if he would fain have struck it into the heart of the bold youth who taunted him so scornfully. But fear had restrained his violence; and, when Eudochia was gone, he remained for several minutes motionless as a statue, gazing down upon the floor, without any perceptible movement except a slight pressure of his hands together, and the sterner knitting of his angry brow.
What were all the dark and the painful thoughts, the burning bitter shame, the lowered but still fierce and venomous pride, that now raged within, it matters not to inquire; suffice it, that so intense and potent were they, that they seemed to absorb his whole soul and mind; and there he remained, as we have said, for many minutes, without speech or movement. At length, however, the imprisoned tempest burst forth, and stamping violently upon the ground, he poured forth a torrent of curses and imprecations upon himself, upon Theodore, upon Eudochia, upon the whole world; and then, casting himself down upon that flower-strewed couch, he raved and gnashed his teeth, in the agony of anger, degradation, and disappointment. After a time, starting up again, he leaned his brow for a moment or two upon his hand, as if in thought, and then called loudly for his attendants.
"Ho, without there!" he exclaimed; "is nobody near? Is everybody fled? Are ye all fools, or cowards, or traitors? Does nobody answer to the voice of the emperor?"
As his voice ran along the passages of the building, with slow and fearful steps a single eunuch crept out from some corner, in which he had concealed himself; and stepping with evident terror over the body of the fallen slave, who had been slain in attempting to prevent the entrance of Theodore, he approached the door at which the monarch stood, and cast himself at his feet.
"Pitiful, cowardly wretch!" exclaimed Valentinian, "why didst thou abandon thy lord, to be insulted by that frantic boy; or, if thou hadst not power to resist him and his barbarians, why didst thou not fly, by the opposite passage, to the chief apartments, and call up the chamberlain and his guards?"
"I had but time to hide myself in the bath, from which there is no outlet," replied the eunuch. "My comrade was smitten to the ground in a moment; and I should have shared the same fate, without serving thee, oh great monarch! if I had not darted away where first I could find refuge."
"Well, get thee gone quick," replied the emperor. "Call up hither, instantly, the prefect of the palace, and also the chamberlain. Lose not a moment."
The eunuch hastened to obey; and after having been absent some time, which Valentinian passed sitting on the edge of the couch in deep and angry thought, he returned with several inferior domestics, but neither of the two high officers he had been sent to seek.
"Where is the prefect, where the chamberlain?" exclaimed Valentinian, with his eyes flashing and his brows knit into a more bitter frown than ever. "Do all my servants neglect and abandon me?"
"Both the prefect and the guardian of the secret chamber," replied the slave, "as well as the count of the domestics, and all the other high officers of the palace, are gone, by your own imperial order, to grace the procession around the capitol."
Valentinian again stamped with rage; but, after a few moments' consideration, he sent away the greater part of the attendants, and calling to him one in whom he seemed to have more confidence than the rest, he demanded, "Dost thou remember, Elius, whither we were told that wild youth, Ammian Flavius, had gone this morning?"
"I know well, oh emperor," replied the domestic--"I know well; for the men who lured him thither were sent by myself to get him out of the way. The inhabitants of two of the villages at the foot of Pincianus hold to-day, we hear, a secret sacrifice to Jupiter; and this wild youth, whom anything that is strange or extravagant will mislead, was easily induced to go out to behold it, notwithstanding the penalties of death pronounced against all present."
"Hark!" said Valentinian; "as soon as the procession is over, send out to Pincianus men enough to drown all these incorrigible pagans in their own blood. Let them slay all they find. Jupiter shall have victims enough; but on no account let them touch this Ammian. Take especial care to save him. Let him be brought into the city guarded. He shall be empaled alive! We will put down these sacrifices--but hark thee again, there is more to be done! Get thee gone, eunuch. Thou art a coward, and not fit to listen to the deeds of brave men. Elius, a youth has been here and snatched the girl from my hands--her brother, it would seem--that Theodore whom we have heard of. He has borne her back to the Aventine. He has insulted me, the emperor. He has slain one of the slaves, and he must die, Elius. But on account of this Attila, it must be no public act. He must die, Elius! but it must be by some chance accident, or in some casual strife. He must die, Elius, he must die! Let not the sun rise upon him again: I leave it to thee, my faithful servant--I leave it to thee to do justice upon the traitor. There is a fair estate not far from Aricia. Thou knowest it well--rich in wine, in oil, and corn--it is thine if this Theodore be dead ere to-morrow morning. See to it!"
"I will find means," replied Elius, calmly.
Valentinian gazed in his face; and finding there a look of assurance which had never failed him, he felt as satisfied as if the deed were done, and with a slow step he sought the other part of the palace.
There is even now--when the sweeping hand of ages has levelled with the earth so many of the things which in the times we speak of were in their splendour--there is even now at the foot of Pincianus a deep, shady grove of tall trees, amid the stems of which the treacherous sunshine of the Roman spring pours its mellow light with a peculiar charm. This, however, is but a small vestige of the magnificent wood that at one period covered the side of the hill, and swept over the undulating country at its base, a wood consisting solely of high upright trees, springing from a green and luxuriant turf, which their own shadow kept cool and verdant. A bright stream, long since licked up by the burning sun, then meandered round the foot of the hill full of delicious water, brawling sportively with the stones which formed its bed; and by the side thereof, every here and there an open space appeared, as if left by the taste of some skilful planter, either for wanderers through that enchanted scene to pause upon and gaze on the cool wave, or for the gay and happy to meet in and prolong the hours with feast and revelry.
At either end of the wood, nearly a mile apart from each other, the one being situated half way up the slope, the other at its base, were two villages, which, though not remote from Rome, had, from various accidental circumstances, maintained in all ages much less communication than might have been expected with the great city, and which preserved with peculiar tenacity those old manners and customs which the secluded and the rustic adhere to with such fond affection. In vain had the customs of the city changed--the villagers of Pincianus changed not with Rome. In vain had empire succeeded republic, and effeminacy and luxury flowed in with demoralizing power--the villagers retained their old simplicity, and, when they carried their produce to the town, but shrugged their shoulders at the strange and women-like men that they beheld. In vain even had the emperors put down by severe laws the poetical religion of their forefathers, and established a purer faith in its place--the villagers still loved their old deities and served their old gods. Even more, they resisted the words of truth when the ministers of truth visited them in person; and driving forth from among them the preachers of the Gospel, they returned to their old rites with persevering zeal.
Severe and more severe measures had been employed to put down paganism. Temples had been changed into churches; altars had been overthrown; the blood of the priest had been mingled with the blood of the victim, and the lives of the worshippers had been taken in the very act of sacrifice: but still the villagers adhered to their old faith, and through nearly a hundred years of persecution and suffering had retained, either openly or secretly, their reverence for the things their fathers had revered before them.
A season of comparative tranquillity had succeeded; and though the persecution of the idolaters had been cruel and virulent during the first years of the reigns of Theodosius and Valentinian, yet for the last lustre this rigour had been relaxed; and though still obliged to conceal, as far as possible, the rites and ceremonies which they practised, those who persevered in heathenism had suffered no very severe inflictions.
It was in one of those open spots, by the side of the stream which we have already described, that on a bright May day were assembled a multitude of people, clothed in white garments, and met together, apparently, for the purpose of offering sacrifice. The turf, out of which no tree grew, covered a space of nearly a hundred yards in diameter; but over a great part thereof hung the wide-spreading branches of the large oaks around, giving shade to the sylvan amphitheatre thus formed on the banks of the little river. The waters flowed on clear and sparkling; the murmurs of a distant fall filled the air with music; bright sunshine was pouring over all the scene and dancing through the leaves upon the turf below; flowers crowned the heads of all the assembly, and gemmed the verdant carpet on which they trod. Everything was smiling and beautiful; and, if the mind could be divested of the remembrance of the dark and sinful object for which the idolaters met, the whole scene had in it something so graceful, so poetical, so exciting, that one might well gaze with raised enthusiasm, even if one took no part in the rite which was about to be performed.
With such feelings stood Ammian Flavius, a little apart from the rest, leaning against one of the trees, at a little distance from which two servants held his horse. Four years had now passed since the period which the reader first beheld him; and while Theodore had expanded into a handsome and powerful man, Ammian, from the wild and beautiful boy which we at first portrayed, had grown up into a tall, graceful, manly youth. His fine features, his noble air, and his symmetrical form, might well attract attention; and many were the eyes that turned upon him among those who met to offer on that day a sacrifice to their false deity. They gazed, however, without any mingling of apprehension; for it was not uncommon for some of the wild youths of the great city to steal out in secret to behold those rites to which their concealment gave an additional charm.
The day had waned considerably, and the sun was approaching the west. The flamen of Jupiter, as he called himself, though the office had been long abolished, stood in his purple robe beside a small altar raised in the midst, and strewed with flowers, and a number of gay laughing boys led along, with sportive glee, a milk-white bull, its neck wreathed with garlands, and its broad brow crowned with flowers. Long nurtured for the purpose of the sacrifice, and rendered familiar with the hands of men, which had never yet been raised against it with violence, the noble beast, unconscious of its coming fate, walked calmly in the midst, suffering itself to be led up to the altar with an untightened rope. Beside the priest stood the cultrarius, leaning on his axe, and all pressed near to behold the ceremony of immolation.
The invocation and the prayer had been pronounced; and the cultrarius, turning to the priest, demanded in the accustomed form, "Shall I do it?"
"Do it!" replied the priest, and swinging the axe above his head, the stout peasant who performed that office laid the monarch of the herd, at a single blow, dead at the foot of the altar. The priest was hastening to apply the knife, when Ammian, hurrying forward, exclaimed, "I hear coming horses, my friends, be upon your guard."
All looked up and listened, and some thought that they also heard the sounds; but if it was so, those sounds ceased almost instantly, and the ceremony proceeded, while Ammian, with his colour slightly raised at the mistake he appeared to have made, retired again to the tree by which he had formerly stood, and continued to gaze upon the proceedings of the rest.
Before many minutes were over, however, a troop of Roman horsemen appeared on the other side of the stream; dashed through its shallow waters; and with their spears and swords carried slaughter and confusion among the heathen worshippers. The priest was at once struck down; but the cultrarius defended himself with his axe for some time, and was at length slain by a javelin thrown from some distance. Resistance was also made by several others, who had arms concealed upon their persons; and if the whole body had taken the same precaution, they might in all probability have resisted successfully the force sent against them, which did not consist of more than fifty or sixty men.
In the midst of the strife, five of the soldiers, leaving the others to pursue their attack upon the heathen, cut straight across and surrounded Ammian; who, seeing that no words were spoken, but death inflicted indiscriminately upon every one, drew his sword, and determined to sell his life dearly. He was overpowered, however, before he could offer any effectual resistance, by one of the Romans springing from behind the tree and clinging to his right arm. In another moment he found himself tied with cords, and dragged away into the midst of the confusion, where the soldiers were still, with merciless activity, slaughtering the unhappy wretches whom they had detected in celebrating the forbidden rites.
Without preserving any order themselves, the troopers pursued wherever they saw a victim to strike; and the villagers, taking advantage of the trees, in many instances kept their cruel persecutors at bay for some time; while the shifting of the horses here and there; the rushing of the crowd of victims, now driven into a body together, now scattering wide to avoid their pursuers; the efforts of resistance; the gestures of supplication; the shrieks of the women and children; the groans of the dying, formed altogether a scene of agony and horror such as the eyes of Ammian had never before beheld.
In the midst of it all, however, he suddenly perceived a horseman clothed in the wild arms of the barbarians mingling with the Roman soldiers. Another and another appeared as if by magic, urging their swift horses through the trees on all sides. The Romans, accustomed to see the barbarians in the emperor's service, seemed to look upon all, except the villagers, as their friends, and took no notice of those who appeared among them, till the number became formidable--equalled--surpassed their own; and then he who appeared to be the commander of the imperial troop suddenly drew up his horse and gazed upon the strangers.
"The barbarian is striking a Roman," he exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this? Fellow, art thou mad?"
The only answer which he received from the man to whom he shouted forth those hurried questions was a javelin cast by an unerring hand, which smote him between the eyes, and cast him lifeless beneath the horse's feet.
All was now confusion tenfold confused. The well-armed barbarians, hand to hand and man to man, drove back the Roman soldiers. The villagers, mad with rage against their oppressors, and inspired with hope by the unexpected aid they had received, became in turn the assailants, and following the Huns among their retreating adversaries, armed with the knives which they bore upon their own persons, or the swords which they caught up from the dead or dying, cut the sinews of the Roman horses, or gave the stroke of death to any one who fell wounded from his charger.
For a short time the imperial troops resisted; but they were soon driven across the stream into the open country. Ammian, whom they had placed on his horse, was led along with them, his arms tied as they were behind him, and unable to resist. But at length the rout of the Romans became complete, and they fled precipitately towards the city; while a small body of the Huns, urging their horses into double speed, dashed with a furious charge into the midst of the fugitives; reached the point where Ammian was borne along, slew the man who led his horse, and, seizing his bridle-rein, hurried him away in the opposite direction, leaving the Romans to pursue their flight without further interruption.
So rapidly did the barbarians urge their horses on, that Ammian had neither time nor breath to ask any questions. Only once they paused, as, pursuing their course at full speed, they took their way towards the ancient Umbria; and that was when they perceived that the adverse force, recovered from its terror, had detached a small body to watch their motions. Then, wheeling so suddenly upon it that retreat was impossible, they left not one of its number to bear back the tidings which it had been sent to obtain. Soon after, the sun set, and with a short twilight night came on. The star of evening, however, shone fair over the whole world, and light sufficient lingered in the skies to show a small lake spreading out across their path. At the spot where the road, taking a direction on either side of the lake, divided into two, stood a barbarian dressed and armed like the rest, and apparently waiting for them. A few eager and quick words were spoken in a tongue which Ammian did not understand; but he guessed, by seeing the man point down to one side of the lake with his spear, and by various other gesticulations used on both sides, that he was directing the Huns to some body of their comrades; and he ventured to ask whither they were about to carry him.
"Fear not," answered the man who led his horse, in very good Latin, while another took advantage of the pause to cut the cords that bound his hands--"fear not, you are with friends, and you are saved from death: we bear you to a place of safety, where you will hear more."
Thus saying, he took the road to which the other man had pointed, and galloped on at the same quick pace as before. The moon was now rising over the neighbouring hills; and at the distance of about a mile they came to a number of tents, pitched in a meadow by the bank of the lake. Several large flat boats were gathered together along the shore, and eight or nine armed men were watching on the verge of the lake; while round two or three fires, lighted at a short distance from the tents, were seen a multitude of barbarians revelling as usual over their evening meal.
The sound of the coming horses had no effect upon the Huns; but seemed to call the attention of the persons, whosoever they were, within the tents; for the hangings of two of them were pushed back as Ammian and his conductors approached, and several people in the garb of Romans came forth. By the moonlight the youth could not distinguish their features, but there was more than one woman of the party; and as he sprang from his horse with feelings of joy mingled with doubt, he was clasped to the bosom of his mother, Flavia, and then pressed in the arms of Theodore. Eudochia, Ildica, too, were there; and in a few brief words he related to them all that had happened to him. At length, shading his eyes from the light, he was led into the tent, and found the whole of Flavia's household assembled as it had left Dalmatia, with the exception of those whom the stern monarch of the grave had taken as his allotted tribute during four years of wandering.
"What is all this? how is all this?" exclaimed the youth, gazing round: "are we about once more to try our fortunes on the wide world?"
"Even so, Ammian," answered Theodore: "circumstances compel us to it, even when we fancied we were united once more, to dwell in peace together for the rest of our days."
"Well, I care not," cried Ammian: "one land is the same to me as another; and wherever liberty is, we may find or found a Rome for ourselves. But hearken, Theodore! Listen to me, my dear brother! In all our past wanderings some one of us has been separated from those who were as dear to his heart as a part of itself. There wants some magic link between us to bind us all together; so that, wherever we go, we may, as slaves to our affections, be chained inseparably to one another. I have a bond to propose, Theodore, which, though it be formed of flowers, will yet prove as strong as adamant. You are to be united to my sister by the dearest ties; why should I not be united to yours by the same. Thus shall we become all, indeed, one family. What say you, my beloved Eudochia? But you have said already, dear one," he added, casting his arms round her, "and it is needless to ask you. Theodore, Eudochia is mine--my promised bride! What say you, my brother?"
"Nothing in opposition, Ammian," answered Theodore, with a smile; "nothing, but that you are very young, and somewhat wild, my brother!"
"Out upon such buts!" cried Ammian, laughing. "I am young; but people would laugh at me more if I married when I was old. Youth is the time of love, and Cupid should surely be the only god that leads us to his brother. As to my wildness, I own it has been so; but it is past. To-day, for the first time, I felt it, and regretted it, and whatsoever I regret the possession of, I cast away, from that minute. When the imperial soldiers burst upon my poor friends with their white bull, and seized upon me myself, slaying all around me, I thought of Eudochia, Theodore; I felt I had done wrong; I regretted my wild thoughtlessness; and resolved, if Heaven spared me, never more so to offend again. I thought of Eudochia, Theodore; that thought cured me of my wildness, and will be my safeguard against the same disease again."
"Well may it be so, my son," replied Flavia; "and when you know all that has befallen to this dear girl since you left us this morning, you will still more deeply feel the evil of such heedlessness; you will guard your bosom still more strongly against its recurrence."
"What has happened?" cried Ammian, his lustrous eyes flashing with eagerness--"what has happened?--Valentinian? Ah, I know it all! I saw him gaze, and sigh, and pass us ten times on the course the other day. What has happened, my mother? Tell me! tell me!"
"I will," answered Flavia; but Eudochia clung to her, exclaiming, "Not now! not now, my mother! Oh, not now! Oh, then I will go away!" and hiding her blushing face upon Ildica's bosom, she hurried away with her into another tent.
All was then told to Ammian of Eudochia's danger and her rescue, and deep and sad seemed to grow his feelings as he listened. "Fool that I was to leave her! Fool that I was to suffer myself to be seduced to behold that idiot sacrifice! for seduced thereunto I was, doubtless, by the agents of that imperial villain. Why did you not slay him, Theodore? I would have slain him where he stood."
"And so would I," replied Theodore, "if he had committed the crime he intended. He should have died that moment had my own death followed the next; but Eudochia was saved; and I had still hopes of being able to remain in Rome. When I returned to the Aventine, however, I heard enough to make me resolve on flying. I found, too, that the Huns who had accompanied me from Dacia bore the commands of Attila to all their fellow-countrymen in the service of Valentinian to return instantly to their native land. I had nearly a hundred with me, several thousands more are at Rome and Ravenna; and I found that I could retreat from the wrath of the tyrant without his power being sufficient to prevent me. As we came hither, we saw a small body of horse go out from the gates towards Pincianus, where we had heard you were; and, fearing some danger, instead of merely sending a messenger to bid you join us, I sent a sufficient body of my followers to defend you in case of need. Their leader, who has been faithful to me for four long years, pledged his own life to bring you to me in safety; and here at length you are, though I hear with pain that Roman blood has been shed. Doubtless we shall be pursued; but every hour fresh parties of the Huns are coming hither to accompany us, and ere to-morrow morning we shall be too strong for Valentinian to effect aught against us. However, Heaven forbid that the time should come when I may have to draw the sword against my fellow-countrymen even in my own defence; and to avoid it, we will cross the lake an hour before daylight to-morrow morning, then on through the mountains to rejoin Attila, who has ever befriended me, and will, I doubt not, befriend me still."