Chapter VIII: The Reunion

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 wreath
Was 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]

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[Footnote 3: After writing the above song, a friend suggested to me that it bore a resemblance to some other verses of which we could both recall a part, but not the whole. We could neither remember the author's name, nor where they were printed; but I have since found that the poem alluded to is by Mrs. Hemans; and the author of Conti, a work full of interest, enthusiasm, and high feeling, lately pointed out to me that the stanzas are printed among the minor poems following "The forest Sanctuary." They commence, "Bring flowers!" and in two or three of the stanzas there is much similarity with the above.]

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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 qu[ae]stor 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 [AE]tius'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 pr[ae]positus 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!"