The Woman of Samaria, from a picture in the Cemetery of St. Domitilla.
The Woman of Samaria, from a picture in the Cemetery of St. Domitilla.
The Woman of Samaria, from a picture in the Cemetery of St. Domitilla.
THE prefect of the city went to give his report on the untoward events of the day, and do what was possible to screen his worthless son. He found the emperor in the worst of moods. Had Corvinus come in his way early in the day, nobody could have answered for his head. And now the result of the inroad into the cemetery had revived his anger, when Tertullus entered into the audience-chamber. Sebastian contrived to be on guard.
“Where is your booby of a son?” was the first salutation which the prefect received.
“Humbly waiting your divinity’s pleasure outside, and anxious to propitiate your godlike anger, for the tricks which fortune has played upon his zeal.”
“Fortune!” exclaimed the tyrant; “fortune indeed! His own stupidity and cowardice: a pretty beginning, forsooth; but he shall smart for it. Bring him in.”
The wretch, whining and trembling, was introduced; and cast himself at the emperor’s feet, from which he was spurned, and sent rolling, like a lashed hound, into the midst of the hall. This set the imperial divinity a-laughing, and helped to mollify its wrath.
“Come, sirrah! stand up,” he said, “and let me hear an account of yourself. How did the edict disappear?”
Corvinus told a rambling tale, which occasionally amused the emperor; for he was rather taken with the trick. This was a good symptom.
“Well,” he said at last, “I will be merciful to you. Lictors, bind your fasces.” They drew their axes forth, and felt their edges. Corvinus again threw himself down, and exclaimed:
“Spare my life; I have important information to furnish, if I live.”
“Who wants your worthless life?” responded the gentle Maximian. “Lictors, put aside your axes; the rods are good enough for him.”
In a moment his hands were seized and bound, his tunic was stripped off his shoulders, and a shower of blows fell upon them, delivered with well-regulated skill, till he roared and writhed, to the great enjoyment of his imperial master.
Smarting and humbled, he had to stand again before him.
“Now, sir,” said the latter, “what is the wonderful information you have to give?”
“That I know who perpetrated the outrage of last night, on your imperial edict.”
“Who was it?”
“A youth named Pancratius, whose knife I found under where the edict had been cut away.”
“And why have you not seized him and brought him to justice?”
“Twice this day he has been almost within my grasp, for I have heard his voice; but he has escaped me.”
“Then let him not escape a third time, or you may have to take his place. But how do you know him, or his knife?”
“He was my school-fellow at the school of Cassianus, who turned out to be a Christian.”
“A Christian presume to teach my subjects, to make them enemies of their country, disloyal to their sovereigns, and contemners of the gods! I suppose it was he who taught thatyoung viper Pancratius to pull down our imperial edict. Do you know where he is?”
“Yes, sire; Torquatus, who has abandoned the Christian superstition, has told me.”
“And pray who is this Torquatus?”
“He is one who has been staying some time with Chromatius and a party of Christians in the country.”
“Why, this is worse and worse. Is the ex-prefect then, too, become a Christian?”
“Yes, and lives with many others of that sect in Campania.”
“What perfidy! what treachery! I shall not know whom to trust next. Prefect, send some one immediately to arrest all these men, and the school-master, and Torquatus.”
“He is no longer a Christian,” interposed the judge.
“Well, what do I care?” replied the emperor peevishly; “arrest as many as you can, and spare no one, and make them smart well; do you understand me? Now begone, all; it is time for my supper.”
Corvinus went home; and, in spite of medicinal applications, was feverish, sore, and spiteful all night; and next morning begged his father to let him go on the expedition into Campania, that so he might retrieve his honor, gratify his revenge, and escape the disgrace and sarcasm that was sure to be heaped on him by Roman society.
When Fulvius had deposited his prisoner at the tribunal, he hastened home to recount his adventures, as usual, to Eurotas. The old man listened with imperturbable sternness to the barren recital, and at last said, coldly:
“Very little profit from all this, Fulvius.”
“No immediate profit, indeed; but a good prospect in view, at least.”
“How so?”
“Why, the Lady Agnes is in my power. I have madesure, at last, that she is a Christian. I can now necessarily either win her or destroy her. In either case her property is mine.”
“Take the second alternative,” said the old man, with a keen glow in his eye, but no change of face; “it is the shorter, and less troublesome, way.”
“But my honor is engaged; I cannot allow myself to be spurned in the manner I told you.”
“Youhavebeen spurned, however; and that calls for vengeance. You have no time to lose, remember, in foolery. Your funds are nearly exhausted, and nothing is coming in. Youmuststrike a blow.”
“Surely, Eurotas, you would prefer my trying to get this wealth by honorable,” (Eurotas smiled at the idea coming into either of their minds) “rather than by foul, means.”
“Get it, get it any way, provided it be the surest and the speediest. You know our compact. Either the family is restored to wealth and splendor, or it ends in and with you. It shall never linger on in disgrace, that is, in poverty.”
“I know, I know, without your every day reminding me of the bitter condition,” said Fulvius, wringing his hands, and writhing in all his body. “Give me time enough, and all will be well.”
“I give you time, till all is hopeless. Things do not look bright at present. But, Fulvius, it is time that I tell you who I am.”
“Why, were you not my father’s faithful dependant, to whose care he intrusted me?”
“I was your father’s elder brother, Fulvius, and am the head of the family. I have had but one thought, but one aim in life, the restoring of our house to that greatness and splendor, from which my father’s negligence and prodigality had brought it down. Thinking that your father, my brother, had greater ability than myself for this work, I resigned my rightsand gains to him upon certain terms; one of which was your guardianship, and the exclusive forming of your mind. You know how I have trained you, to care nothing about the means, so that our great ends be carried.”
Fulvius, who had been riveted with amazement and deep attention on the speaker, shrunk into himself with shame, at this baring of both their hearts. The dark old man fixed his eyes more intently than ever, and went on:
“You remember the black and complicated crime by which we concentrated in your hands the divided remnant of family wealth.”
Fulvius covered his face with his hands and shuddered, then said entreatingly, “Oh, spare me that, Eurotas; for heaven’s sake spare me!”
“Well, then,” resumed the other, unmoved as ever, “I will be brief. Remember, nephew, that he who does not recoil from a brilliant future, to be gained by guilt, must not shrink from a past that prepared it by crime. For the future will one day be the past. Let our compact, therefore, be straightforward and honest, for there is an honesty even in sin. Nature has given you abundance of selfishness and cunning, and she has given me boldness and remorselessness in directing and applying them. Our lot is cast by the same throw,—we become rich, or die, together.”
Fulvius, in his heart, cursed the day that he came to Rome, or bound himself to his stern master, whose mysterious tie was so much stronger than he had known before. But he felt himself spell-bound to him, and powerless as the kid in the lion’s paws. He retired to his couch with a heavier heart than ever; for a dark, impending fate never failed to weigh upon his soul every returning night.
The reader will perhaps be curious to know what has become of the third member of our worthy trio, the apostate Torquatus. When, confused and bewildered, he ran to lookfor the tomb which was to guide him, it so happened, that, just within the gallery which he entered, was a neglected staircase, cut in the sandstone, down to a lower story of the cemetery. The steps had been worn round and smooth, and the descent was precipitous. Torquatus, carrying his light before him, and running heedlessly, fell headlong down the opening, and remained stunned and insensible at the bottom, till long after his companions had retired. He then revived, and for some time was so confused that he knew not where he was. He arose and groped about, till, consciousness completely returning, he remembered that he was in a catacomb, but could not make out how he was alone and in the dark. It then struck him that he had a supply of tapers about him, and means of lighting them. He employed these, and was cheered by finding himself again in light. But he had wandered from the staircase, of which, indeed, he recollected nothing, and went on, and on, entangling himself more inextricably in the subterranean labyrinth.
He felt sure that, before he had exhausted his strength or his tapers, he should come to some outlet. But by degrees he began to feel serious alarm. One after the other his lights were burnt out, and his vigor began to fail, for he had been fasting from early morning; and he found himself coming back to the same spot, after he had wandered about apparently for hours. At first he had looked negligently around him, and had carelessly read the inscriptions on the tombs. But as he grew fainter, and his hope of relief weaker, these solemn monuments of death began to speak to his soul, in a language that it could not refuse to hear, nor pretend to misunderstand. “Deposited in peace,” was the inmate of one; “resting in Christ” was another; and even the thousand nameless ones around them reposed in silent calm, each with the seal of the Church’s motherly care stamped upon his place of rest. And within, the embalmed remains awaited the sound of angelictrumpet-notes, to awaken them to a happy resurrection. And he, in a few more hours, would be dead like them; he was lighting his last taper, and had sunk down upon a heap of mould; but would he be laid in peace, by pious hands, as they? On the cold ground, alone, he should die, unpitied, unmourned, unknown. There he should rot, and drop to pieces; and if, in after years, his bones, cast out from Christian sepulture, should be found, tradition might conjecture that they were the accursed remains of an apostate lost in the cemetery. And even they might be cast out, as he was, from the communion of that hallowed ground.
It was coming on fast; he could feel it; his head reeled, his heart fluttered. The taper was getting too short for his fingers, and he placed it on a stone beside him. It might burn three minutes longer; but a drop filtering through the ceiling, fell upon it, and extinguished it. So covetous did he feel of those three minutes more of light, so jealous was he of that little taper-end, as his last link with earth’s joys, so anxious was he to have one more look at things without, lest he should be forced to look at those within, that he drew forth his flint and steel, and labored for a quarter of an hour to get a light from tinder, damped by the cold perspiration on his body. And when he had lighted his remnant of candle, instead of profiting by its flame to look around him, he fixed his eyes upon it with an idiotic stare, watching it burn down, as though it were the charm which bound his life, and this must expire with it. And soon the last spark gleamed smouldering like a glow-worm, on the red earth, and died.
Was he dead too? he thought. Why not? Darkness, complete and perpetual, had come upon him. He was cut off for ever from consort with the living, his mouth would no more taste food, his ears never again hear a sound, his eyes behold no light, or thing, again. He was associated with the dead, only his grave was much larger than theirs; but, for all that,it was as dark and lonely, and closed for ever. What else is death?
No, it could not be death as yet. Death had to be followed by something else. But even this was coming. The worm was beginning to gnaw his conscience, and it grew apace to a viper’s length, and twisted itself round his heart. He tried to think of pleasant things, and they came before him; the quiet hours in the villa with Chromatius and Polycarp, their kind words, and last embrace. But from the beautiful vision darted a withering flash; he had betrayed them; he had told of them; to whom? To Fulvius and Corvinus. The fatal chord was touched, like the tingling nerve of a tooth, that darts its agony straight to the centre of the brain. The drunken debauch, the dishonest play, the base hypocrisy, the vile treachery, the insincere apostasy, the remorseful sacrileges, of the last days, and the murderous attempt of that morning, now came dancing, like demons hand in hand, in the dark before him, shouting, laughing, jibing, weeping, moaning, gnashing their teeth; and sparks of fire flying before his eyes, from his enfeebled brain, seemed to dart from glaring torches in their hands. He sunk down and covered his eyes.
“I may be dead, after all,” he said to himself; “for the infernal pit can have nothing worse than this.”
His heart was too weak for rage; it sunk within him in the impotence of despair. His strength was ebbing fast, when he fancied he heard a distant sound. He put away the thought; but the wave of a remote harmony beat again upon his ear. He raised himself up; it was becoming distinct. So sweet it sounded, so like a chorus of angelic voices, but in another sphere, that he said to himself: “Who would have thought that Heaven was so near to hell! Or are they accompanying the fearful Judge to try me?”
And now a faint glimmer of light appeared at the samedistance as the sounds; and the words of the strain were clearly heard:
“In pace, in idipsum, dormiam et requiescam.”[156]
“Those words are not for me. They might do at a martyr’s entombment; they cannot at a reprobate’s burial.”
The light increased; it was like a dawn glowing into day; it entered the gallery and passed across it, bearing in it, as in a mirror, a vision too distinct to be unreal. First, there came virgins robed and holding lamps; then four who carried between them a form wrapped up in a white linen cloth, with a crown of thorns upon the head; after them the youthful acolyte Tarcisius bearing a censer steaming with perfumed smoke; and, after others of the clergy, the venerable Pontiff himself, attended by Reparatus, and another deacon. Diogenes and his sons, with sorrowful countenances, and many others, among whom he could distinguish Sebastian, closed the procession. As many bore lamps or tapers, the figures seemed to move in an unchanging atmosphere of mildest light.
And as they passed before him, they chanted the next verse of the psalm:
“Quoniam Tu Domine singulariter in spe constituisti me.”[157]
“That,” he exclaimed, rousing himself up, “thatis for me.”
With this thought he had sprung upon his knees; and by an instinct of grace words which he had before heard came back to him like an echo; words suited to the moment; words which he felt that hemustspeak. He crept forward, faint and feeble, turned along the gallery through which the funeral procession was passing, and followed it, unobserved, at a distance. It entered a chamber and lighted it up, so that a picture
The Martyr’s Burial.
The Martyr’s Burial.
The Martyr’s Burial.
of the Good Shepherd looked brightly down on him. But he would not pass the threshold, where he stood striking his breast and praying for mercy.
The body had been laid upon the ground, and other psalms and hymns were sung, and prayers recited, all in that cheerful tone and joyous mood of hopefulness, with which the Church has always treated of death. At length it was placed in the tomb prepared for it, under an arch. While this was being done, Torquatus drew nigh to one of the spectators, and whispered to him the question:
“Whose funeral is this?”
“It is thedeposition,” he answered, “of the blessed Cæcilia, a blind virgin, who this morning fell into the hands of the soldiers, in this cemetery, and whose soul God took to Himself.”
“Then I am her murderer,” he exclaimed, with a hollow moan; and staggering forward to the holy bishop’s feet, fell prostrate before him. It was some time before his feelings could find vent in words; when these came, they were the ones he had resolved to utter:
“Father, I have sinned before heaven, and against Thee, and I am not worthy to be called Thy child.”
The Pontiff raised him up kindly, and pressed him to his bosom, saying, “Welcome back, my son, whoever thou art, to thy Father’s house. But thou art weak and faint, and needest rest.”
Some refreshment was immediately procured. But Torquatus would not rest till he had publicly avowed the whole of his guilt, including the day’s crimes; for it was still the evening of the same day. All rejoiced at the prodigal’s return, at the lost sheep’s recovery. Agnes looked up to heaven from her last affectionate glance on the blind virgin’s shroud, and thought that she could almost see her seated at the feet of her Spouse, smiling, with her eyes wide open, asshe cast down a handful of flowers on the head of the penitent, the first-fruits of her intercession in heaven.
Jesus cures the Blind Man, from a picture in the Cemetery of St. Domitilla.
Jesus cures the Blind Man, from a picture in the Cemetery of St. Domitilla.
Jesus cures the Blind Man, from a picture in the Cemetery of St. Domitilla.
Diogenes and his sons took charge of him. An humble lodging was procured for him, in a Christian cottage near, that he might not be within the reach of temptation, or of vengeance, and he was enrolled in the class of penitents, where years of expiation, shortened by the intercession of confessors—that is, future martyrs—would prepare him for full re-admission to the privileges he had forfeited.[158]
SEBASTIAN’S visit to the cemetery had been not merely to take thither for sepulture the relics of the first martyr, but also to consult with Marcellinus about his safety. His life was too valuable to the Church to be sacrificed so early, and Sebastian knew how eagerly it was sought. Torquatus now confirmed this, by communicating Fulvius’s designs, and the motive of his attendance at the December ordination. The usual papal residence was no longer safe; and a bold idea had been adopted by the courageous soldier,—the “Protector of the Christians,” as his acts tell us he had been authoritatively called. It was to lodge the Pontiff where no one could suspect him to be, and where no search would be dreamt of, in the very palace of the Cæsars.[159]Efficiently disguised, the holy Bishop left the cemetery, and, escorted by Sebastian and Quadratus, was safely housed in the apartments of Irene, a Christian lady of rank, who lived in a remote part of the Palatine, in which her husband held a household office.
Early next morning Sebastian was with Pancratius. “My dear boy,” he said, “you must leave Rome instantly, and gointo Campania. I have horses ready for you and Quadratus; and there is no time to be lost.”
“And why, Sebastian?” replied the youth, with sorrowful face and tearful eye. “Have I done something wrong, or are you doubtful of my fortitude?”
“Neither, I assure you. But you have promised to be guided by me in all things, and I never considered your obedience more necessary than now.”
“Tell me why, good Sebastian, I pray.”
“It must be a secret as yet.”
“What,anothersecret?”
“Call it the same, to be revealed at the same time. But I can tell you what I want you to do, and that I think will satisfy you. Corvinus has got orders to seize on Chromatius and all his community, yet young in the faith, as the wretched example of Torquatus has shown us; and, what is worse, to put your old master Cassianus, at Fundi, to a cruel death. I want you to hasten before his messenger (perhaps he may go himself), and put them on their guard.”
Pancratius looked up brightly again; he saw that Sebastian trusted him. “Your wish is enough reason for me,” said he, smiling; “but I would go the world’s end to save my good Cassianus, or any other fellow-Christians.”
He was soon ready, took an affectionate leave of his mother; and before Rome had fully shaken off sleep, he and Quadratus, each with well-furnished saddle-bags on their powerful steeds, were trotting across the campagna of Rome, to reach the less-frequented, and safer, track of the Latin way.
Corvinus having resolved to keep the hostile expedition in his own hands, as honorable, lucrative, and pleasant, it was delayed a couple of days, both that he might feel more comfortable about his shoulders, and that he might make proper preparations. He had a chariot hired, and engaged a body ofNumidian runners, who could keep up with a carriage at full speed. But he was thus two days behind our Christians, though he, of course, travelled by the shorter and more beaten Appian road.
When Pancratius arrived at the Villa of Statues, he found the little community already excited, by the rumors, which had reached it, of the edict’s publication. He was welcomed most warmly by all; and Sebastian’s letter of advice was received with deep respect. Prayer and deliberation succeeded its perusal, and various resolutions were taken. Marcus and Marcellianus, with their father Tranquillinus, had already gone to Rome for the ordination. Nicostratus, Zoë, and others followed them now. Chromatius, who was not destined for the crown of martyrdom, though commemorated, by the Church, with his son, on the 11th of August, found shelter for a time in Fabiola’s villa, for which letters had been procured from its mistress, without her knowing the reason why; for he wished to remain in the neighborhood a little while longer. In fine, the villaad Statuaswas left in charge of a few faithful servants, fully to be depended upon.
When the two messengers had given themselves and their horses a good rest, they travelled, by the same road as Torquatus had lately trodden, to Fundi, where they put up at an obscure inn out of the town, on the Roman road. Pancratius soon found out his old master, who embraced him most affectionately. He told him his errand, and entreated him to fly, or at least conceal himself.
“No,” said the good man, “it must not be. I am already old, and I am weary of my unprofitable profession. I and my servant are the only two Christians in the town. The best families have, indeed, sent their children to my school, because they knew it would be kept as moral as paganism will permit; but I have not a friend among my scholars, by reason of this very strictness. And they want even thenatural refinement of Roman heathens. They are rude provincials; and I believe there are some among the elder ones who would not scruple to take my life, if they could do so with impunity.”
“What a wretched existence indeed, Cassianus, you must be leading! Have you made no impression on them?”
“Little or none, dear Pancratius. And how can I, while I am obliged to make them read those dangerous books, full of fables, which Roman and Greek literature contain? No, I have done little by my words; perhaps my death may do more for them.”
Pancratius found all expostulation vain, and would have almost joined him in his resolution to die; only he had promised Sebastian not to expose his life during the journey. He, however, determined to remain about the town till he saw the end.
Corvinus arrived with his men at the villa of Chromatius; and early in the morning rushed suddenly through the gates, and to the house. He found it empty. He searched it through and through, but discovered neither a person, a book, nor a symbol of Christianity. He was confounded and annoyed. He looked about; and having found a servant working in the garden, asked him where his master was.
“Master no tell slave where he go,” was the reply, in a latinity corresponding to such a rude phraseology.
“You are trifling with me. Which way did he and his companions go?”
“Through yonder gate.”
“And then?”
“Look that way,” answered the servant. “You see gate? very well; you see no more. Me work here, me see gate, me see no more.”
“When did they go? at least you can answer that.”
“After the two come from Rome.”
“What two? Always two, it seems.”
“One good youth, very handsome, sing so sweet. The other very big, very strong, oh, very. See that young tree pulled up by the roots? He do that as easy as me pull my spade out of the ground.”
“The very two,” exclaimed Corvinus, thoroughly enraged. “Again that dastardly boy has marred my plans and destroyed my hopes. He shall suffer well for it.”
As soon as he was a little rested, he resumed his journey, and determined to vent all his fury on his old master; unless, indeed, he whom he considered his evil genius should have been there before him. He was engaged during his journey, in plotting vengeance upon master and fellow-student; and he was delighted to find, that one at least was at Fundi, when he arrived. He showed the governor his order for the arrest and punishment of Cassianus, as a most dangerous Christian; but that officer, a humane man, remarked that the commission superseded ordinary jurisdiction in the matter, and gave Corvinus full power to act. He offered him the assistance of an executioner, and other requisites; but they were declined. Corvinus had brought an abundant supply of strength and cruelty, in his own body-guard. He took, however, a public officer with him.
He proceeded to the school-house when filled with scholars; shut the doors, and reproached Cassianus, who advanced with open hand and countenance to greet him, as a conspirator against the state and a perfidious Christian. A shout arose from the boyish mob; and by its tone, and by the look which he cast around, Corvinus learnt there were many present like himself—young bears’ cubs, with full-grown hyenas’ hearts within them.
“Boys!” he shouted out, “do you love your master Cassianus? He was once mine too, and I owe him many a grudge.”
A yell of execration broke out from the benches.
“Then I have good news for you; here is permission from the divine emperor Maximian for you to do what you like to him.”
A shower of books, writing tablets, and other school missiles, was directed against the master, who stood unmoved, with his arms folded, before his persecutor. Then came a rush from all sides, with menacing attitudes of a brutal onslaught.
“Stop, stop,” cried out Corvinus, “we must go more systematically to work than this.”
He had reverted in thought to the recollection of his own sweet school-boy days; that time which most look back on from hearts teeming with softer feelings than the contemplation of present things can suggest. He indulged in the reminiscence of that early season in which others find but the picture of unselfish, joyous, happy hours; and he sought in the recollection what would most have gratified him then, that he might bestow it as a boon on the hopeful youths around him. But he could think of nothing that would have been such a treat to him, as to pay back to his master every stroke of correction, and write in blood upon him every word of reproach that he had received. Delightful thought, now to be fulfilled!
It is far from our intention to harrow the feelings of our gentle readers by descriptions of the cruel and fiendish torments inflicted by the heathen persecutors on our Christian forefathers. Few are more horrible, yet few better authenticated, than the torture practised on the martyr Cassianus. Placed, bound, in the midst of his ferocious young tigers, he was left to be the lingering victim of their feeble cruelty. Some, as the Christian poet Prudentius tells us, cut their tasks upon him with the steel points used in engraving writing on wax-covered tablets; others exercised the ingenuity of a precocious brutality, by inflicting every possible torment onhis lacerated body. Loss of blood, and acute pain, at length exhausted him, and he fell on the floor without power to rise. A shout of exultation followed, new insults were inflicted, and the troop of youthful demons broke loose, to tell the story of their sport at their respective homes. To give Christians decent burial never entered into the minds of their persecutors; and Corvinus, who had glutted his eyes with the spectacle of his vengeance, and had urged on the first efforts at cruelty of his ready instruments, left the expiring man where he lay, to die unnoticed. His faithful servant, however, raised him up, and laid him on his bed, and sent a token, as he had preconcerted, to Pancratius, who was soon at his side, while his companion looked after preparations for their departure. The youth was horrified at what he beheld, and at the recital of his old master’s exquisite torture, as he was edified by the account of his patience. For not a word of reproach had escaped him, and prayer alone had occupied his thoughts and tongue.
Cassianus recognized his dear pupil, smiled upon him, pressed his hand in his own, but could not speak. After lingering till morning he placidly expired. The last rites of Christian sepulture were modestly paid to him on the spot, for the house was his; and Pancratius hurried from the scene, with a heavy heart and a no slight rising of its indignation, against the heartless savage who had devised and witnessed, without remorse, such a tragedy.
He was mistaken, however. No sooner was his revenge fulfilled than Corvinus felt all the disgrace and shame of what he had done; he feared it should be known to his father, who had always esteemed Cassianus; he feared the anger of the parents, whose children he had that day effectually demoralized, and fleshed to little less than parricide. He ordered his horses to be harnessed, but was told they must have some more hours’ rest. This increased his displeasure;remorse tormented him, and he sat down to drink, and so drown care and pass time. At length he started on his journey, and after baiting for an hour or two, pushed on through the night. The road was heavy from continued rain, and ran along the side of the great canal which drains the Pontine marshes, and between two rows of trees.
Corvinus had drunk again at his halt, and was heated with wine, vexation, and remorse. The dragging pace of his jaded steeds provoked him, and he kept lashing them furiously on. While they were thus excited they heard the tramp of horses coming fast on behind, and dashed forward at an uncontrollable speed. The attendants were soon left at a distance, and the frightened horses passed between the trees on to the narrow path by the canal, and galloped forward, rocking the chariot from side to side at a reckless rate. The horsemen behind hearing the violent rush of hoofs and wheels, and the shout of the followers, clapped spurs to their horses, and pushed gallantly forward. They had passed the runners some way when they heard a crash and a plunge. The wheel had struck the trunk of a tree, the chariot had turned over, and its half-drunken driver had been tossed head over heels into the water. In a moment Pancratius was off his horse and by the side of the canal, together with his companion.
By the faint light of the rising moon, and by the sound of his voice, the youth recognized Corvinus struggling in the muddy stream. The side was not deep, but the high clayey bank was wet and slimy, and every time he attempted to climb it his foot slipped, and he fell back into the deep water in the middle. He was, in fact, already becoming benumbed and exhausted by his wintry bath.
“It would serve him right to leave him there,” muttered the rough centurion.
“Hush, Quadratus! how can you say so? give me hold of your hand. So!” said the youth, leaning over the bank andseizing his enemy by his arm, just as he was relaxing his hold on a withered shrub, and falling back fainting into the stream. It would have been his last plunge. They pulled him out and laid him on the road, a pitiable figure for his greatest foe. They chafed his temples and hands, and he had begun to revive when his attendants came up. To their care they consigned him, together with his purse, which had fallen from his belt as they drew him from the canal. But Pancratius took possession of his own pen-knife, which dropped out with it, and which Corvinus carried about him, as evidence to convict him of having cut down the edict. The servants pretended to Corvinus, when he had regained consciousness, that they had drawn him out of the water, but that his purse must have been lost in it, and lay still buried in the deep mud. They bore him to a neighboring cottage, while the carriage was being repaired, and had a good carouse with his money while he slept.
The Anchor and Fish, emblematic of Christianity, found in the Catacombs.
The Anchor and Fish, emblematic of Christianity, found in the Catacombs.
The Anchor and Fish, emblematic of Christianity, found in the Catacombs.
Two acts of revenge had been thus accomplished in one day,—the pagan and the Christian.
IF, before the edict, the Thermæ of Dioclesian were being erected by the labor and sweat of Christian prisoners, it will not appear surprising, that their number and their sufferings should have greatly increased, with the growing intensity of a most savage persecution. That emperor himself was expected for the inauguration of his favorite building, and hands were doubled on the work to expedite its completion. Chains of supposed culprits arrived each day from the port of Luna, from Sardinia, and even from the Crimea, or Chersonesus, where they had been engaged in quarries or mines; and were put to labor in the harder departments of the building art. To transport materials, to saw and cut stone and marble, to mix the mortar, and to build up the walls, were the duties allotted to the religious culprits, many of whom were men little accustomed to such menial toil. The only recompense which they received for their labor, was that of the mules and oxen which shared their occupation. Little better, if better, than a stable to sleep in, food sufficient in quantity to keep up their strength, clothing enough to guard them from the inclemency of the season, this was all they had to expect. Fetters on their ankles, heavychains to prevent their escape, increased their sufferings; and task-masters, acceptable in proportion as they were unreasonable, watched every gang with lash or stick in hand, ever ready to add pain to toil, whether it were to vent their own wanton cruelty upon unresisting objects, or to please their crueller masters.
But the Christians of Rome took peculiar care of these blessed confessors, who were particularly venerated by them. Their deacons visited them, by bribing their guards; and young men would boldly venture among them, and distribute more nourishing food, or warmer clothing to them, or give them the means of conciliating their keepers, so as to obtain better treatment at their hands. They would then also recommend themselves to their prayers, as they kissed the chains and the bruises, which these holy confessors bore for Christ.
This assemblage of men, convicted of serving faithfully their divine Master, was useful for another purpose. Like the stew in which the luxurious Lucullus kept his lampreys ready fattened for a banquet; like the cages in which rare birds, the pens in which well-fed cattle, were preserved for the sacrifice, or the feast of an imperial anniversary; like the dens near the amphitheatre, in which ferocious beasts were fed for exhibition at the public games; just so were the public works the preserves, from which at any time could be drawn the materials for a sanguinary hecatomb, or a gratification of the popular appetite for cruel spectacles, on any occasion of festivity; public stores of food for those fierce animals, whenever the Roman people wished to share in their savage propensities.
Such an occasion was now approaching. The persecution had lingered. No person of note had been yet captured; the failures of the first day had not been fully repaired; and something more wholesale was expected. The peopledemanded more sport; and an approaching imperial birthday justified their gratification. The wild beasts, which Sebastian and Pancratius had heard, yet roared for their lawful prey. “Christianos ad leones” might seem to have been interpreted by them, as meaning “that the Christians of right belonged to them.”
One afternoon, towards the end of December, Corvinus proceeded to the Baths of Dioclesian, accompanied by Catulus, who had an eye for proper combatants in the amphitheatre, such as a good dealer would have for cattle at a fair. He called for Rabirius, the superintendent of the convict department, and said to him:
“Rabirius, I am come by order of the emperor, to select a sufficient number of the wicked Christians under your charge, for the honor of fighting in the amphitheatre, on occasion of the coming festival.”
“Really,” answered the officer, “I have none to spare. I am obliged to finish the work in a given time, and I cannot do so, if I am left short of hands.”
“I cannot help that; others will be got to replace those that are taken from you. You must walk Catulus and myself through your works, and let us choose those that will suit us.”
Rabirius, grumbling at this unreasonable demand, submitted nevertheless to it, and took them into a vast area, just vaulted over. It was entered by a circular vestibule lighted from above, like the Pantheon. This led into one of the shorter arms of a cruciform hall of noble dimensions, into which opened a number of lesser, though still handsome, chambers. At each angle of the hall, where the arms intersected one another, a huge granite pillar of one block had to be erected. Two were already in their places, one was girt with ropes delivered round capstans, ready to be raised on the morrow. A number of men were activelyemployed in making final preparations. Catulus nudged Corvinus, and pointed, with his thumb, to two fine youths, who, stripped slave-fashion to their waists, were specimens of manly athletic forms.
“I must have those two, Rabirius,” said the willing purveyor to wild beasts; “they will do charmingly. I am sure they are Christians, they work so cheerfully.”
“I cannot possibly spare them at present. They are worth six men, or a pair of horses, at least, to me. Wait till the heavy work is over, and then they are at your service.”
“What are their names, that I may take a note of them? And mind, keep them up in good condition.”
“They are called Largus and Smaragdus; they are young men of excellent family, but work like plebeians, and will go with you nothing loth.”
“They shall have their wish,” said Corvinus, with great glee. And so they had later.
As they went through the works, however, they picked out a number of captives, for many of whom Rabirius made resistance, but generally in vain. At length they came near one of those chambers which flanked the eastern side of the longer arm of the hall. In one of them they saw a number of convicts (if we must use the term) resting after their labor. The centre of the group was an old man, most venerable in appearance, with a long white beard streaming on his breast, mild in aspect, gentle in word, cheerful in his feeble action. It was the confessor Saturninus, now in his eightieth year, yet loaded with two heavy chains. At each side were the more youthful laborers, Cyriacus and Sisinnius, of whom it is recorded, that, in addition to their own task-work, one on each side, they bore up his bonds. Indeed, we are told that their particular delight was, over and above their own assigned portion of toil, to help their weaker brethren, and performtheir work for them.[160]But their time was not yet come; for both of them, before they received their crowns, were ordained deacons in the next pontificate.
Several other captives lay on the ground, about the old man’s feet, as he, seated on a block of marble, was talking to them, with a sweet gravity, which riveted their attention, and seemed to make them forget their sufferings. What was he saying to them? Was he requiting Cyriacus for his extraordinary charity, by telling him that, in commemoration of it, a portion of the immense pile which they were toiling to raise, would be dedicated to God, under his invocation, become a title, and close its line of titulars by an illustrious name?[161]Or was he recounting another more glorious vision, how this smaller oratory was to be superseded and absorbed by a glorious temple in honor of the Queen of Angels, which should comprise the entire of that superb hall, with its vestibule, under the directing skill of the mightiest artistic genius that the world should ever see?[162]What more consoling thought could have been vouchsafed to those poor oppressed captives, than that they were not so much erecting baths for the luxury of a heathen people, or the prodigality of a wicked emperor, as in truth building up one of the stateliest churches in which the true God is worshipped, and the Virgin Mother, who bore Him incarnate, is affectionately honored?
From a distance Corvinus saw the group; and pausing, asked the superintendent the names of those who composed it. He enumerated them readily; then added, “You may as welltake that old man, if you like; for he is not worth his keep, as far as work goes.”
“Thank you,” replied Corvinus, “a pretty figure he would cut in the amphitheatre. The people are not to be put off with decrepit old creatures, whom a single stroke of a bear’s or tiger’s paw kills outright. They like to see young blood flowing, and plenty of life struggling against wounds and blows, before death comes to decide the contest. But there is one there whom you have not named. His face is turned from us; he has not the prisoner’s garb, nor any kind of fetter. Who can it be?”
“I do not know his name,” answered Rabirius; “but he is a fine youth, who spends much of his time among the convicts, relieves them, and even at times helps them in their work. He pays, of course, well for being allowed all this; so it is not our business to ask questions.”
“But it is mine, though,” said Corvinus, sharply; and he advanced for this purpose. The voice caught the stranger’s ear, and he turned round to look.