Chapter IX: Part 9

The Centurion withdrew with his father, so that I was left alone with Tarna for some time; and it was then that, in my juvenile simplicity, I could not help expressing my surprise at finding in servile condition a man possessed of such acquirements as his, and addicted to such pursuits.

“It would argue little,” he replied, “in favour of such pursuits, if they tended only to make me repine at the place which has been allotted me—no matter whether by the decree of fate, or the caprice of fortune. And after all, I am not of opinion that any such external circumstances can much affect the real happiness of any one. Give to him that has been born a slave, what men are pleased to call his freedom; in a few weeks he will become so much accustomed to the boon, that he will cease to think of it. Heap wealth upon him; to wealth also he will gradually become habituated. Rank—power—with all it is the same. It is in the mind only that the seat of happiness is placed; and there it never can be, unless in companionship with thoughts that look down upon, and despise being affected by trifling things.”

“And are such,” said I, “the views of all those who follow your sect?”

“I wish it were so,” he replied; “but ere you remain long in the city, you will meet with not a few, philosophers only in the name, who, having small means of subsistence, but being desirous of leading a luxurious and agreeable life, become teachers of such doctrines as may accord best with the vicious inclinations of those who are most likely to entertain them. These persons assume too often the name of Epicureans. They are seen every where at feasts crowned with myrtle, and fawning upon gouty senators; and whenever a boar’s-head appears, they are sure to call it worthy of Meleager. Their conversation is made up of stale jests about Charon and his boat, and the taking of Auguries; and, when finally inebriated, they roll upon the ground like those animals, to whom, in consequence of the proceedings of such hypocritical pretenders, the ignorant have dared too often to liken the wisest of mankind. Such things I disdain—I am satisfied to remain, as I was born, in the rank of Æsop, Epictetus, Terence.”

By this time the Centurion had returned. He had a lamp in his hand; and he interrupted our conversation. “Come, we start betimes, Caius; and you too, my sweet cock of Cyrene, I think you had better fold your wings, and compose yourself upon your roost.”

Oh, enviable temperament! said I to myself—you liken the slave to a bird. Methinks yourself are more deserving of the simile. The light and the air of heaven are sufficient to make you happy—your wings are ever strong—their flight ever easy—and the rain of affliction glides off them as fast as it falls. Sleep softly, kind heart. It is only the troubles of a friend that can ever disturb your serenity.

_CHAPTER X._

I was in bed before Dromo interrupted my reflections by saying, in a low tone of considerable confidence, “And now, Master Valerius, do you still continue, as much as two days ago, to disbelieve in philtres and despise enchantresses? You see what, with all my precaution, has come of this connection between Rubellia and the Neapolitan.”

“In truth, Dromo,” I replied, “it is visible that Pona had some share in leading the soldiers to the Sempronian Sepulchre; but I am doubtful if that had any thing to do with the private affairs of the lady Rubellia. As to that matter, I confess myself entirely in the dark.”—“Dark indeed,” quoth he, “must your observation have been, if you have yet to learn that, but for that accursed witch, nothing of all this had befallen; but if there be an edict against the Christians, there are twenty laws against sorcery; and that both Pona and she that consulted her shall know well ere long, if they do not as yet know it; or may Cretan change places with Bœotian!”—“Say on, good Dromo,” I replied, “I am all ears; and as you appear to have been all eyes, I shall probably soon be more enlightened.”

“Well,” quoth he, “I am glad to find that you are in a mood to listen to me decently. You remember where I took my station when you mounted those unfortunate steps upon the tower. I had not stood there many minutes before I heard somebody approaching; and having no doubt it was Rubellia, I was preparing myself for giving her such a salutation as I thought would put a speedy end to her wandering for that night. On came the steps, but no Rubellia. No; it was Xerophrastes himself; and although he had laid aside the Greek mantle, and donned a boatman’s black cloak for the nonce, I promise you I knew his stately gait well enough beneath all these new trappings. It was no part of my job, however, to attempt frightening the stoic.”—“And so you let him pass without doing any thing?”—“I did; I confess I gave one or two groans after he had gone on a few paces, but I did not observe him much quicken his walk, and I believe, to do the man justice, he set it all down to the wind rustling among the trees. But I thought not much of him at all, to speak the truth; for, said I to myself, Well, if it be as I have suspected for these two blessed days, and this master long-beard is really in league with the widow, the chances are, she herself is not far behind him. I lay by, therefore, and expected in silence till I should hear another tread; and in the meantime I spoke to you once or twice across the path, but you made me no answer, for which you know your own reasons.”—“The reason,” said I, “was a very simple one, I assure you. I had fallen asleep, and no wonder, for you know how long I had been a watcher.”—“Well,” said he, “I guessed as much, and it was nothing but the born tenderness of my disposition, which made me cease from offering you any disturbance. I thought I should surely be enough single-handed for the widow; and besides, in case of need, I knew your waking would always be in my power.”

“Admirably reasoned, Dromo,” said I; “and so it seems no need came, for you certainly never awakened me; for which I may thank the bonds from which the Centurion’s kindness has just set me free. But you have atoned abundantly—I pray you, get on with your tale.”

“Presently,” he resumed, “I heard footsteps, indeed, my good master, and not footsteps alone, but voices; and I moved from the place as hastily as I could, till I came to a tree, the branches of which, springing low on the trunk, offered an opportunity for mounting, which I should have been a Bœotian indeed had I neglected. I mounted, and hiding myself as well as I could among the boughs, awaited the arrival of the party, which consisted—ay, stare if you will—of Xerophrastes and the widow, walking in front, in earnest talk by themselves,—and the Neapolitan in the rear. They halted, and though they spoke low, I could hear them distinctly.”—“And what, in the name of Heaven, said they?”

“‘Are you sure,’ said the widow, ‘that this is indeed the girl whom Sextus went to see at the Villa? Can there be no mistake?’—‘Mistake, lady, there is none,’ replied the Stoic. ‘Pona was at the villa with her basket, and she saw them all walking together in the garden.’—‘And this little Christian,’ said the lady as if to herself, ‘it is she that has cost me all this trouble! It is for this Athanasia that I have been insulted as never woman was by man, and they are both here in the tower!’—‘They are, lady,’ quoth the witch; ‘they are both in the tower, for I saw her go in by her self first, and then in went some dozen of those muffled blasphemers, and, last of all, went in he himself. I saw him not enter indeed, but I swear to you, that I saw him here not twenty paces from hence, and he had with him that cunning slave of his, (meaning myself, sir,) whose ugly face, (the foul woman added,) I would know although it were disguised beneath all the washes that were ever mixed in the seething-pots of Calabria.’—‘But what,’ interrupted our long-beard, ‘what will Licinius say? At least, my lady and my friend Pona will take good care that no suspicion rests upon me. Sextus is a silly boy, without taste, judgment, or discretion; but Licinius is acute and powerful.’—‘Fear not,’ said Rubellia; ‘fear not, dear Xerophrastes. Nobody shall appear in the matter except Pona, and she tells you she has already given warning at the Capene Gate. There are always a hundred men stationed on the Cœlian. Nothing can save them!’

“These words were scarcely out of her mouth, ere the soldiers were heard approaching. Xerophrastes ascended with great agility a tree just over against mine; Rubellia retreated among the pines; and Pona alone awaited the guard. I would have periled a limb to have been able to give you the alarm; but little did I suspect, that had I sought you where I left you, I should have sought in vain.—How, I pray you, did you contrive to get into the accursed tower?”

I told him I should give him the story another time at full length, and mentioned briefly what had occurred. And then the Cretan proceeded with his narrative.

“I leave you to guess, Valerius, how my heart beat when I saw the witch lead the soldiers straight to the place where I supposed you were still sitting—with what anxiety I saw the tower surrounded—its tenants brought out,—with what astonishment I saw you led out, the last of their number.—I had neither time to think by what means all this had happened, nor the least power to interfere. I saw you all mounted—guarded—borne away. Whither they carried you, I was unable to make the smallest conjecture. I saw Sabinus speak to you, and then I had hope,—but that too failed. In brief, I did not venture from my tree till the whole assembly, not forgetting Xerophrastes, had departed; and you may judge what a story I had to tell Sextus when I reached home.

“Instead of waiting to ponder and hesitate, as he used to do when his own matters perplexed him, he went from me straight to his father. But before they had done with their conversation, Sabinus himself arrived, and he was immediately taken into the same chamber where they were. Licinius and he went out together soon afterwards, and I think they walked towards the Palatine; but whithersoever they went, they had a good deal of work before them, for the day had advanced considerably before they returned. The Centurion’s horses were brought to the door shortly after; my master desired me to accompany him; and gave me letters for you, which I had almost forgotten to deliver.”

Such was the story of the faithful Cretan. The letter of Licinius I have still preserved:—

“Since our Sabinus desires that I should write to you, although his own kindness renders it unnecessary that I should do so, I cannot refuse. I understand little, my Valerius, of what has brought you into this condition, from which, not without difficulty overcome, you are, notwithstanding, speedily to be delivered. I guess, that hastiness of various sorts, not, however, entirely without excuse in a person of your age, has been the means of implicating you in the affairs of a sect, equally unworthy of your communication, whether you consider the country in which their superstition originated, or the barbarities with which it is stained. But even for beauty, my young friend, it becomes not a Roman, least of all a Valerius, to forget what is due to the laws of Rome, and the will of the Prince. Consider with yourself how nearly you have escaped serious evil. Return to us, and forget what has passed, except for the lesson it must teach you. Of Rubellia and Xerophrastes I am unwilling to believe, without farther examination, what has been told me by my slave Dromo. We shall speak of that and other matters, when (which I hope will be early to-morrow) you once more give me the pleasure of seeing you. I have then much to say. Farewell.”

_BOOK III. CHAPTER I._

Day was far advanced before the Centurion and myself once more drew near to the city. When we reached the first declivity beyond the Anio, the sun was about to sink behind the Janicular. The innumerable sounds of the capital, blended together into one mighty whisper, seemed only to form part of the natural music of the air, and might almost have been confounded with the universal hum of insects. We rode slowly down the hill, the base of which is ever darkened by the solemn groves of the Appian.

We advanced in silence through that region of melancholy magnificence. I scarcely knew whether I should be able of myself to recognize, among so many similar edifices, the mausoleum of the Sempronii, and some feeling rendered me unwilling to put any questions concerning it to Sabinus.

But while we were moving leisurely, we heard of a sudden a clang of cymbals among the trees, a little to the right hand, and the Centurion, saying, “What company can this be?” led the way down a narrow path branching from the main road. This path was winding and dusky, being edged on either side with pines and cypresses, so that for some space we saw nothing; and the cymbals having ceased again, the Centurion said, “I suppose it is some funeral; they have probably completed every thing, and have seen out the last gleam among the embers. Let us get on, for perhaps we may be kept back by their procession, if they are already returning.” We quickened our pace accordingly, till a sharp turning of the road discovered to us a great number of persons who were standing silent, as if in contemplation of some ceremony. Several persons on horseback seemed, like ourselves, to have had their progress interrupted; but they were sitting quietly, and making no complaint. The silence of the whole assembly was indeed such, that Sabinus motioned to me to ask no questions, adding, in a whisper, “Take off your cap; it is some religious rite—every body is uncovered.”

The Centurion, however, was not a person to be stopped thus, without wishing to understand farther the cause of the interruption. The one side of the road was guarded by a high wall, to the top of which a number of juvenile spectators had climbed;—the other by a ditch of great breadth, and full of water, beyond which was a grove of trees; and I saw him eyeing the ditch, as if considering whether, by passing it, it might not be possible, without disturbing the crowd, to get nearer the object of their attention, or at least to make progress in our journey. At last he beckoned to me to follow him, and the bold equestrian at one leap passed easily. I imitated the example, and so did the Prætorian soldier, his attendant, who had now come up to us; but as for Dromo, he was obliged to remain behind.

Ere we reached the bottom of the declivity, I perceived that we had come close to the Sempronian monument, and that the ceremony, whatever it might be, was taking place in front of the tower. We gave our horses to the soldier, and contrived to gain the bank over against it—the same place, in fact, where the Cretan slave had taken his station among the pine-trees, on the night when all those things occurred of which I have spoken to you. Like him, we placed ourselves as quietly as we could behind the trees, and, indeed, for our purpose, there could have been no better situation. We were contented, however, to occupy it as much as possible without attracting observation; for it was evident, in spite of the curiosity that detained so great a multitude near at hand, there must be something mysterious or ominous of nature in that which was taking place, since not one of the crowd had dared to come forward, so as to be within hearing of the officiators.

And these, indeed, were a melancholy group. For men, and women, and children of every age, to the number it may be of an hundred, appeared all standing together in garments of black; while, in the midst of them, and immediately by the base of the tower, two or three veiled priests, with their necessary assistants, seemed to be preparing for sacrifice a black bull, whose hoofs spurned the dust as they held him, and his gilded horns glittered in the light of the declining sun. Sabinus no sooner discovered the arrangement of the solemn company, than he whispered to me, “Be sure, these are all the kindred of the Sempronii. Without question they have come to purify the mausoleum, and to avert the vengeance of the violated Manes. Behold,” said he, “that stately figure, close to the head of the animal on the right hand; that, I know, is Marcia Sempronia, Priestess of Apollo. Without doubt, these by her are her brothers.”

“Some of her near relations they must be,” I made answer; “for observe you that girl whose face is wrapped in her mourning veil, and whose sobs are audible through all its folds? I had one glimpse of her countenance, and I am sure it is young Sempronia, the cousin and companion of Athanasia,—the daughter of Lucius the senator.”

“Poor girl,” replied Sabinus, “from my heart I pity her. They are all joining hands, that the nearest of the kindred touching the priest, his deed may appear manifestly to be the deed of all.”

At this moment, one of the officiators sounded a few mournful notes upon a trumpet. The priest who held the axe, clave at one blow the front of the bull. The blood streamed, and wine streamed with it abundantly upon the base of the mausoleum; and then, while we were yet gazing on the convulsions of the animal, the trumpet sounded a second time, and the whole company sung together, the priest leading them.

The shadows of the tower and of the pine trees lay strongly upon them, and I thought there was something of a very strange contrast between the company and their chant, on the one hand, and the beautiful sculptures, full of all the emblems of life and happiness, on the other, with which, according to the gay dreams of Grecian fancy, the walls of the funereal edifice itself had here and there been garnished. Fauns, and torch-bearing nymphs, and children crowned with garlands, and wreathed groups and fantastic dances, seemed to enliven almost to mockery the monumental marbles; but one felt the real gloominess both of death and of superstition, in the attitudes and accents of the worshippers. It was thus they sung:—

Ye Gods infernal! hear us from the gloom
Of venerable depths remote, unseen;
Hear us, ye guardians of the stained tomb,
Majestic Pluto—and thou, Stygian Queen,
On the dark bosom leaning of great Dis—
Thou reconciled Star of the Abyss.

Blood, not for you, unholy hands have poured,
Ye heard the shriek of your insulted shrine;
Barbarian blasphemies, and rites abhorred,
Pollute the place that hath been long divine;
Borne from its wounded breast an atheist cry
Hath pierced the upper and the nether sky.

With blood of righteous sacrifice again
The monumental stone your suppliants lave.
Behold the dark-brow’d bull—Behold him slain!
Accept, ye powers of the relenting grave,
The sable current of that vital stream;
And let the father’s hope upon the children gleam.

And ye, that in the ever dusky glades
Of Hades, wandering by Cocytus’ shore,
Ancestral spirits—melancholy shades—
With us the tresspass of the tomb deplore;
Oh! intercede—that terror and disgrace
May not possess (as now) your resting-place.

What though the liquid serpent of the deep
Between lie coil’d in many a glittering ring:
Not unobserved of your pale eyes we weep,
Nor to deaf ears this doleful chant we sing;
Strong is the voice of blood through night to go,
Through night and hell, and all the realms below.

Then hear us, kindred spirits—stately Sire
And pensive Mother! wheresoe’er ye glide;
If ever solemn pile and soaring fire
In freedom sped you to the Stygian tide,—
Have pity on your children: let the breath
Of living sorrow melt the frozen ear of death.

For Her that, sprung like us from your high line,
Hath mingled in the sacrifice of guilt,
Ye know that angry star, her natal sign,
To expiate whose curse this blood is spilt;
If not suffices this atoning blood,
Oh, steep the thought of her in Lethe’s flood.

Beneath that current lazy and serene,
In whose unfathomable waters lie
The slumbering forms of horrors that have been
In Hades, and in Ocean, Earth, and Sky—
With long forgotten curse and murder old,
Steep that lost daughter’s errors manifold.

Once more for you an hallowed flame there burns.
Once more for you an hallowed stream there flows;
Despise not our lustrations of your urns,
Nor let unhoused Manes be our foes!
Above the children of your lineage born,
Hover not, awful ghosts, in anger and in scorn.

These words were sung, as I have said, by the whole of this kindred there assembled together; the first part of them distinctly, though not loudly; but the last verses in a note so low, that no one, unless quite near, (like ourselves,) could have comprehended their meaning. But as for the young Sempronia, when they came to that part of the chant in which reference was so particularly made to Athanasia, not only did her lips refuse to join in the words, but her agitation was such that I thought the poor maiden would have screamed outright, had she not been controlled by the eye, and the hand also, of her aunt the Priestess. Sobs, however, and low hysterical groans, could not be stifled; and at last so great was her agony, that even the haughty Priestess was compelled to give way to it.

“Bring water,” said she; “dash ye water upon the foolish thing: methinks it seems almost as if she had partaken in the frenzy of her unhappy——”

And before she could finish the sentence, one or two of the females that were present did take hold of Sempronia, and began, seeing there was no water nearer at hand, to bear her slender form towards the small stream of which I have already spoken, and which flowed immediately behind the clump of pine trees, amongst which the Centurion and I were standing.

She was quite passive in their hands; and they dragged her without resistance or difficulty to the place where we were standing; but they could not pass without seeing us: and no sooner did the eyes of Sempronia fall upon me, than she burst by one unexpected effort from the arms of those that were sustaining her, and ere I or any one could suspect what she was to do, there lay she at my feet, clinging with her arms around my knees. “Oh, Valerius,” said she—“Oh, dear Valerius, they curse Athanasia! Where is my Athanasia? whither have they taken her? Oh, tell me, that I may go to her—that I may go to comfort Athanasia!”

“Peace!” said, before I could answer, the Priestess of Apollo—“Peace, mad, wretched thing,—has infatuation blasted the whole of our line?” And she seized Sempronia by the arm, and compelled her to spring from her knees. But the maiden still clung by her hands to me, and continued, with looks and words of misery, to demand from me that knowledge which, alas! I would myself have given so much to possess. Sabinus, however, smote me on the shoulder, as if to make me recollect myself; and I had resolution enough not to betray the feelings with which I listened to Sempronia’s frantic supplication.

“What is this, sir?” then said the Priestess—“What is it that you know of Athanasia? and why is it that you have presumed to witness the secret sacrifice of a noble race?—Speak—or is there no meaning in this poor girl’s frenzy? And yet, methinks I have seen you before, and that, too, in the presence of——”

“It was,” said I, hastily—“it was indeed in the presence of Athanasia; but that circumstance, if you please to remember, was altogether accidental. I was with the lady Rubellia when you found her in the Temple of Apollo——”

“Yes,” said she, “it was that same day when she refused to name the name of Phœbus in his own precincts! Ha! little did I imagine what thoughts were in her breast—else might we at least have been spared this open degradation. And yet you, methinks, saluted Athanasia.—What is your name, sir?—Know you, in truth, whither the lady Athanasia has been conveyed?”

“He was with her!—he was with her!” exclaimed Sempronia,—“he was with her in the tower when the soldiers came.—O Valerius! tell me where she is now,—into what dungeon have they cast my friend—my sister——”

“Ha!” quoth the Priestess, “he was with her in the tower!—Romans—kinsmen—Lucius—Marcus—hear ye this? I charge ye, seize upon this treacherous blasphemer!—It is he that has deceived Athanasia; and now must he come here to taint the smoke of our sacrifice, and pollute our prayers with his presence.—Seize him!”—And she herself grasped my cloak as she spake—“Seize, I charge ye, this accursed Christian!”

But Sabinus, when he saw the Priestess thus furious, stept forward, and said to her kinsmen, who were standing in perplexity behind her, “Sirs, I beseech you, be not you also carried away with this madness.—My friend here knows nothing of the lady Athanasia, except that she was borne away by soldiers from the very place where we are standing. I myself witnessed it also, being here with the Prætorians. Valerius is no more a Christian than she who accuses him.”

“I know not, sirs, how we are to understand all this,” said one of the Sempronii, in a calm voice. “Is this young man the same Valerius who is living in the house of Licinius?—Yet it must be he. I have been with Licinius this very day; and if this be he, whatever he may have known before, I am sure he knows nothing of where Athanasia is now,—and, sister, I am well assured he is no Christian.”

“It is the same, sir,” said Sabinus. “He is the same Caius Valerius of whom you spake, and I am Sabinus, a Centurion of the Prætorians.”

“We have all heard of your name,” said Sempronius, respectfully; “I perceive there is some mistake in all this matter. If it please you, let us walk aside, and understand each other.”

So saying, he withdrew Sabinus to a little distance, and beckoned to me to accompany him. “Valerius,” said the old man, when he perceived that we were out of hearing, “I crave you, in the first place, to forget all this trouble which has been occasioned to you by the violence of my daughter, on the one hand, and of my sister on the other. They are women; and, for different reasons, the violence of both is excusable. I have been for a considerable part of this day with Licinius, and have heard from him enough to satisfy me how guiltlessly you yourself have been involved in this affair; and your speedy liberation from confinement is more than enough to confirm my belief of all that he said. Yet there is much which I do not understand. I pray you speak openly, and fear nothing—you have, indeed, nothing to fear. Was it in consequence of any private meeting with my niece—nay, I mean not to suspect you of any thing amiss—in one word, how was it that you happened to be taken into custody with that unhappy girl?”

“Sir,” I replied, “you are a noble Roman, and the near kinsman of Athanasia. You have a right to put these questions, and whatever reluctance I may have to overcome, I feel that I have no right to refuse an answer.” And so I told Sempronius, plainly and distinctly, the story both of my unwilling entrance into the mausoleum, and of my forcible abduction from it. In short, I saw no reason to conceal any thing from the person who was most likely to be able to serve Athanasia, if any thing to serve her were possible.

“It is well,” he said; “you speak as becomes a man of the Valerian blood. But as for poor Athanasia, I swear to you I cannot yet bring myself to believe that she hath in reality been privy to such things as have been discovered concerning these Christians.”—“Discovered!” said I. “I pray you, what has been discovered concerning them? If you allude to any of the wild stories that are circulated about their religion, you may depend upon it, it is all mere madness to believe a word of it. I have read in their sacred books myself, and I swear to you, that, so far as I have seen, nothing can be more simple, benign, humane, than the morality inculcated by their leader.”

“Young man,” he answered, “I was not thinking of their creed, which, for aught I know or care, may be sublime enough; for there was always a mysterious sort of philosophy current among those old Asiatic nations. But I speak of the designs of these men; in one word, I speak of their conspiracy.”—“Conspiracy!—What? How? Against whom? I will pledge my life, no conspiracy was sheltered beneath yon tower that night. I swear to you, they are simple people, and were thinking of nothing but their worship.”—“Worship!” quoth he; “I promise you it will not be so easy to persuade me that Cotilius has suddenly become a man of so much piety, either to our gods, or to the deities (if they have any) of the Christians.—What, Cotilius? By Jove, Rome does not hold at this moment a more bold, daring, godless rascal. You may as soon try to make me believe that Capaneus came to Thebes with a hymn in his mouth. No, no—the sworn friend of Domitian will not easily gain credit for his new-sprung sanctity.”—“Cotilius? That was the very name of the man that seized me, as I have told you.”—“I should have guessed as much,” said he;—“Yes, I promise you, how little soever Athanasia might have known, secrets they had; and Cotilius was well aware at what peril they should be revealed.”

“The late example,” said I, “must indeed have alarmed him.”—“What,” said he, “do you speak of that fanatic Syrian? You know little of Cotilius. No, no—had the worst of his fears been the necessity to worship all the deities between Euphrates and Rhine, he would have slept soundly.”—“But surely,” said I, “you do not believe that Athanasia had any knowledge of the man’s secret designs, if he had any. He may have used Christianity, or desired to use it, as a weapon against the State; but be certain, neither she nor any of those really attached to their religion, had any notion of his purpose.”

“It may be so, indeed,” he answered;—“Heaven grant it may. As for Cotilius, I will speak to you more at length of him anon. I will bid adieu to my sister, and take order about my daughter; and then, if it so please you, we shall walk together to the city.”

To this I agreed, but Sabinus rode on to the camp of the Prætorians. He whispered to me, however, that unless he were most necessarily detained, he should be, ere long, at the house of Licinius.

“To you,” said the Senator, as we went on, “who have so lately come from your island, the whole of this expiatory spectacle is probably quite new; but I am sure Sabinus could not have been aware what was its purpose, otherwise he would not have been guilty of so grievously offending the feelings of my sister, and some of the rest of my kindred, by remaining a witness of these most private rites. The Priestess is indeed inconsolable, and her grief has set half her other passions in motion likewise. Athanasia was as dear to her as if she had been her daughter; so, in truth, she was to us all, ever since her parents died. But Cotilius, this knave Cotilius, has, I fear, blasted her hopes and ours.”—“It occurs to me,” said I, “and I should have mentioned it to you before, that there seemed to be no great understanding between this Cotilius and Athanasia. She was evidently displeased with many things he both said and did; and he, on his part, did not appear to relish her interference.”—“True,” he continued, “you have already hinted as much; and I assure you, these are some of the circumstances in the whole case that tend most to excite my hopes. Great Heavens! what would Caius have said had he dreamt that his orphan was to be suspected of having sympathy with any of the dark designs of that shame to Roman knighthood! But you, of course, are a stranger to this man’s history.”—“With its end, at least,” I replied, “it is like we may all be soon enough acquainted.”

“Yes,” said he, “Heaven grant we have not cause too deeply to remember it! but I have known him from the beginning. I told you already that he was in great favour with Domitian.”—“And the reverse, of course,” said I, “both with Nerva and Trajan.”

“Even so,” he continued, “and with reason; for in all the disturbances which occurred on the accession of the last sovereign, and, in particular, in those foul intrigues among the Prætorians, which at one time brought Nerva’s own life into immediate danger and compelled him to bare his neck to the soldiery at his gate, this Cotilius was more than suspected to have had a deep concern. When Petronius and Parthenius(2) were hacked in pieces, it needed no great witchcraft to detect some of the moving spirits that produced their catastrophe; but proof there was none at the time; and even had there been proof enough, the good old man would have been too timid to act upon it. These things, however, could not be forgotten either by Nerva or his successor. Hitherto, the strong hand has repressed every rebellious motion; but be sure that no man ever lived more an object of suspicion, than this man has done ever since Nerva adopted Trajan.”

“And you think,” said I, “that, among other intrigues, it had occurred to this man to make his own use of the Christians; despised and persecuted though they be, there can, indeed, be no doubt that their numbers are considerable, and that their faith is a strong bond of cohesion.”

“It is even so,” said the Senator. “But as yet the treason even of Cotilius rests on suspicion only, and report; and, after all, even if he were proved guilty of having nourished such schemes, the account you give of what you saw and heard at their assembly, inspires me with considerable doubts whether he can be supposed to have ever as yet ventured to invite their participation;—unless, indeed, they practised deception while you were with them. The moment I heard of what had happened, I went to the Palatine, in hopes of attaining either assistance from Urbicus, or mercy, if that were all we could look for, from Trajan. But Urbicus could give me no satisfaction, except that my niece was in a solitary and safe place. The charges, he said, against one of the leaders (he meant Cotilius) were heavy; and until these were sifted, it was impossible that access could be afforded to any one who had been thrown into confinement. The Emperor had shewn unusual symptoms of anxiety, and had even, so he hinted, been in person investigating the matter at a distance from the city, during great part of the preceding night and day. To tell you the truth, Valerius, till this thing fell out, I was wont to consider the new violence about the Christians as somewhat unworthy of the enlarged intellect of Trajan: it had not occurred to me, how easily the resources of such a superstition might be enlisted in the cause of discontent.”

“Of course,” said I, “nothing will be done in regard to Athanasia until all circumstances have been examined.”

“Done!” said he; “has not enough been done already to justify almost in a man more than you have seen among our women? Has not a whole family been disgraced? Has not the mausoleum of their fathers been prostituted for the unholy purposes of this barbarian sect? If the Senate should be summoned, with what countenance should I shew myself among my friends?—Unhappy girl! How little did she know in what trouble she was to involve those that love her the best.”

By this time we had come within sight of the house of Licinius, and the Senator took leave, with a promise that I should see him on the morrow.

I found Sextus alone in his chamber, where he embraced me with all the ardour of juvenile affection. “Alas!” said he, “my dear Caius, at any other time I might have found fault with you for taking so great a part in my griefs, and yet keeping so many of your own to yourself. But if it be indeed as Sempronia has said, I should be a strange friend to choose this hour for complaining of such trifles as regard only myself.”

“Sextus,” I replied, “it was only because of the greatness of your own distresses that I concealed from your kindness any of mine.”

“My Valerius,” he answered, “we shall talk at length to-morrow; at present, I have only time to say, that the misfortune of Athanasia was communicated to Sempronia almost immediately, by an old freedwoman, who had been in the habit of attending her when she went from home in secret, and who, going to the mausoleum to accompany her on her return, arrived there just in time to see what befel her. She saw you also, (how she knew who you were, I know not,) and when she had told her story to Sempronia, the poor girl, before speaking even with her father, sent for me to come to her in the gardens. I did so; all that passed I need not repeat; but I hope my advice was the right one. At all events, I acted for the best, and my father, who is now aware of every thing, seemed to approve of what I had done. O Valerius! were Athanasia free, and you happy, many things have occurred to make me much more at ease than when you left us. My father is evidently shocked with what Dromo told about Rubellia; and as for Xerophrastes, he had not once spoken to him either yesterday or to-day. Indeed, neither of them have been much here. My father is continually exerting himself concerning Athanasia; and Xerophrastes, I suppose, is afraid of a discovery. As for me, I am sorry I must leave you, for I promised to meet Sempronia; and although I have nothing to tell her, I cannot fail in my appointment. She must have returned before this time from the mausoleum, where an expiatory sacrifice was to be made at sunset.”

Sabinus by this time had hastened to me once more, according to his kind promise. I told him that my kinsman was not at home, and that I proposed, in the meantime, accompanying his son a part of the way towards the Suburban of Capito. The Centurion insisted on going with us, saying, that he could not think of returning to the camp without having spoken with Licinius.

_CHAPTER II._

The Centurion, in virtue of his office, had free access to the gardens of Trajan; so he led us by both a more delightful and a nearer path towards the Salarean Gate. Young Sextus then quitted us; and we returned slowly through the beautiful groves of the Imperial Villa, in hopes of finding my kinsman by the time we should reach his mansion. But as we were walking very quietly along one of the broad green terraces, we heard voices in an adjoining alley, separated from us by luxuriant thickets of myrtle, and Sabinus, whispering to me, “Hush, let us see what we have got here,” insinuated himself with great dexterity among the verdant shrubs. I followed him with as little noise as was possible, and having found a convenient peeping place, we soon perceived two figures at some little distance from us in the moonlight.—“Come, Sabinus,” I whispered, “they are lovers perhaps—I don’t see what right we have to overhear.”—“Peace,” quoth he, “if you stir, they will detect us, and it is nothing unless it be known.”

With some reluctance I remained where I was; but my scruples were at an end the moment I perceived who they were.

“Most noble, most illustrious lady,” said Xerophrastes, “this matter has indeed been conducted unfortunately, yet no reason see I why you should give way to so many groundless apprehensions. The only thing, after all, that you have lost, if indeed you have lost it, is the good opinion of Licinius; for, as to that foolish boy——”—“Name him not,” replied Rubellia, “name not the stripling. Surely madness alone can account for my behaviour.”—“Madness!” quoth the Stoic; “yes, truly, and who, at certain moments, is free from such madness? As Euripides has expressed it, Venus, if she come in wisdom, is the wisest; if otherwise, the most frenzied of influences. The greatest have not been exempt from such visitations. Banish it from your heart, noble lady, or replace it by something more worthy of your discernment. There is, I think, but one pair of eyes in Rome that could have been blind to such perfections.”—“O Xerophrastes!” said she, “speak not to me of perfections. Alas! I was born under a deceitful star—a star of apparent splendour and real misery.”—“Noble lady,” he replied, “I swear to you that what tincture of philosophy I have imbibed, is unable to sustain my serenity when I hear such words from your lips. You are surrounded by all that externals can minister. It is your part to compose your mind, and then how should it be possible for you to taste of unhappiness? Think no more of that boy.”

The philosopher took her hand with an air of the deepest sympathy, and at the same time drew the end of his mantle over his face, as if to conceal the extent of his participation in her distresses.—“Alas! lady, this is, after all, a miserable world. There is no rest but in the affections, and behold how they are harassed on every hand by the invidious accidents of life. Philosophy proclaims her antidote, but the poison is every where; and it is all one course of being wounded to be cured, and being cured only to be more easily wounded again.”

Our friend continued in an attitude of pensive contemplation. The moonbeams fell full on his high brow and the large massy features of his countenance, and on the robust limbs which emerged from below the stately folds of his mantle; and I could not help thinking that there was something almost heroic, which I had never before remarked, in the whole of his appearance. Rubellia kept her eyes fixed steadfastly upon him.

“I should have known nothing of it,” he resumed, “had I never deserted my paternal valley for the vain pleasures of Athens, and the magnificence of Rome.”—“You repent,” said she, “that you ever visited Italy? I pray you deal with me openly. If it be your wish to leave Rome, speak, and I shall put it in your power to retire to Greece as handsomely as you could ever have hoped to do from the family of Licinius. Of wealth, as you well know, I have enough both for myself and for my faithful friends, among whom, be sure, I place you in the first rank. Control your feelings, I pray you once more—and speak freely.”

Hastily and fervently he pressed his lip upon the beautiful hand of Rubellia, and whispered something into her ear. She started, and I think blushed in the moonlight; but neither seemed offended very deeply with what he had said, nor with the gesture he had used.—“Softly, softly,” whispered the Centurion, “be not ashamed, fair lady, of the love of thy servant.”

But (whether the echo of his Horatian parody had reached her ear or not, I cannot tell,) scarcely had these words been uttered, ere Rubellia started from her seat, and began to move pretty quickly down the shaded alley, as if towards the entrance of the gardens. Xerophrastes sate still for a moment, even after the lady had arisen, covering his eyes, and part of his broad forehead with his hands, as if buried in his own thoughts too deeply to be with ease affected with a sense of things passing around him. Then, at last, he arose, and uttering an exclamation of surprise, walked after the noble dame, taking heed, however, (it did not escape our observation,) to arrange, as he rapidly followed her, the massive folds of his mantle into a graceful drapery.

Sabinus restrained himself till they were beyond the reach of his voice; but he then made himself ample amends. “Ha!” said he, “is this to be the end? Most pensive ghost of Leberinus, is this to be thy successor?”—“Good heavens!” said I, “Sabinus, do you think it possible she should make the pedagogue her husband—she that was but yesterday so desperately enamoured of the beautiful young Sextus?”—“My dear islander,” quoth the Centurion, “do you remember the story of a certain beautiful boy, called Adonis?”—“To be sure,” said I, “who is ignorant of the story of Adonis, or of the beautiful verses of Bion—

“I weep for fair Adonis—for Adonis is no more,
Dead is the fair Adonis—his beauty I deplore;
His white thigh with a tusk of white the greenwood monster tore,
And now I weep Adonis—for Adonis is no more.’”

“Well spouted,” quoth the soldier; “and with an excellent gravity: But think you Venus never altered the burden of her ditty? Have you never heard of Mars the blood-stained, the destroyer of men, the leveller of city walls—nor of Anchises, the Dardan shepherd, wiser in his generation than one who inherited both his station and his opportunity; no, nor even of Vulcan, the cunning Artificer, the Lord of the One-eyed Hammerers, the Lemnian, the Chain-maker, the Detector, the awkward Cup-bearer, whose ministration, as honest Homer confesses, fills Olympus with inextinguishable laughter. Have you heard of all these, and I take it of a few more besides; and yet do you talk as if Venus, after the white boar’s tusk had pierced the white thigh of her Adonis, had made no use of her beautiful girdle, but to wipe the tears from her pretty eyes withal?—her girdle, of which, heaven pity your memory, I know not how many blessed ages after Adonis had fallen, the same faithful bard said,

‘In it is stored whate’er can love inspire:
In it is tender passion, warm desire,
Fond lovers’ soft and amorous intercourse;
The endearing looks and accents that can fire
The soul with passionate love’s resistless force,
’Gainst which the wisest find in wisdom no resource.’

I was there the night she espoused Leberinus, and I pitied her very sincerely, when I saw the pretty creature lifted over the old man’s threshold in her yellow veil, which I could not help thinking concealed more sighs, if not more blushes, than are usual on such occasions. But I promise you the glare of her new torches shall affect me with different emotions.”

Such talk passed as we were leaving the gardens of Trajan. But as we advanced into the more peopled region, we found the streets full of clamour, insomuch that quiet discourse could no longer be carried on. The evening was one of the most lovely I had ever seen, and the moon was shedding a soft and yellow light upon the lofty towers and trees, and upon all that long perspective of pillars and porticos. Yet groups of citizens were seen running to and fro with torches in their hands; while many more were stationary in impenetrable crowds, which had the air, as it seemed to us, of being detained in the expectation of some spectacle. Accordingly we had not jostled on much farther, ere there arose behind us a peal of what seemed to me martial music; but my companion, as soon as the sounds reached him, warned me that a procession of the priests of Cybele must be at hand.

At last they came quite close to us, and passed on dancing around the image of the Goddess, and singing the chaunt of Atys. A path being opened for them by the crowd all along, they made no halt in their progress, but went on at the same pace, some of them leaping high from the ground as they dashed their cymbals, and others dancing lowly while they blew the long Phrygian trumpets and crooked horns of brass. The image itself was seated in a brazen chariot, to which brazen lions also were fastened, the whole being borne on the shoulders of some of the assistants. Behind it came others, beating great hollow drums; and then again more, leaping, and dancing, and singing, like those who preceded it. They were all clad in long Asiatic vests, with lofty tiaras; and their countenances, as well as their voices, intimated sufficiently that they were ministers of the same order to which the hapless Atys had belonged. Yet nothing but enthusiasm and triumph could be discovered in their manner of singing that terrible hymn.

They had not advanced much beyond the spot where we were standing, ere they stopped of a sudden, and, placing the chariot and image of Cybele between the pillars of one of the porticos that run out into the street, began a more solemn species of saltation. When they had finished this dance also, and the more stately and measured song of supplication with which it was accompanied, the priests then turned to the multitude, and called upon all those who reverenced the Didymæan mysteries, to approach and offer their gifts. Immediately the multitude that were beyond formed themselves into a close phalanx, quite across the street, and torches being conveyed into the hands of such as stood in the foremost rank, there was left in front of the image an open space, brightly illuminated, for the convenience, as it seemed, of those who might come forward to carry their offerings to the foot of the statue. And, indeed, it appeared as if these were not likely to be few in number; for the way being quite blocked up by those torch-bearers, no one could hope to pass on easily without giving something, or to pass at all without being observed. Not a few chariots, therefore, and litters also, having been detained, the persons seated in these vehicles seemed to be anxious, as soon as possible, to present their offerings, that the path onward might be cleared to them by command of the priests. It was necessary, however, as it turned out, that each person in advancing to the chariot of Cybele, should imitate the motions practised by the Galli themselves; and this circumstance, as may be imagined, was far from being the most acceptable part of the ceremony to some of those who had thus been arrested. A few of the common sort, both men and women, stepped boldly into the open ring, and with great appearance of joy went through the needful gesticulations. But, at first, none of the more lordly tenants of the chariots and litters seemed to be able to prevail on themselves to follow the example. At length, however, the impatience even of these dignified persons began to overcome their reluctance; one and another red-edged gown was seen to float in lofty undulations across the torch-lighted stage, and when a handful of coin was heard to ring upon the basin of the Goddess, doubt not the priests half-cracked their cheeks in blowing horn and trumpet, and clattered upon their great tambarines as violently as if they had made prize of another Atys. But how did the Centurion chuckle when he observed that one of the next chariots was no other than that of Rubellia herself, and perceived that she and the Stoic were now about to pass onwards like the rest, at the expense of exhibiting their agility before the multitude.