The servant now announced that Agnes’s litter was waiting at the door; and any one who could have seen the affectionate farewell of the three,—the noble lady, the slave, and the beggar, would have justly exclaimed, as people had often done before, “See how these Christians love one another!”
IF we linger a little time about the door, and see Agnes fairly off, and listen to the merry conversation between her and Cæcilia, in which Agnes asks her to allow herself to be accompanied home by one of her attendants, as it has grown dark, and the girl is amused at the lady’s forgetfulness that day and night are the same to her, and that on this very account she is the appointed guide to thread the mazes of the catacombs, familiar to her as the streets of Rome, which she walks in safety at all hours; if thus we pass a little time before re-entering, to inquire how the mistress within fares after the day’s adventures, we shall find the house turned topsy-turvy. Slaves, with lamps and torches, are running about in every direction, looking for something or other that is lost, in every possible and impossible place. Euphrosyne insists it must be found; till at last the search is given up in despair. The reader will probably have anticipated the solution of the mystery. Syra had presented herself to have her wound re-dressed, according to orders, and the scarf which had bound it was no longer there. She could give no account of it, further than that she had taken it off, and put it on, certainly not so well as Euphrosyne had done it, and she gave the reason, for she scorned to tell a lie. Indeed she had never missed it till now. The kind-hearted old nurse was much grieved at the loss, which she considered must be heavy to a poor slave-girl, as she probably reserved that object for the purchase of her liberty. And Syra too was sorry, but for reasons which she could not have made the good housekeeper comprehend.
Euphrosyne had all the servants interrogated, and many even searched, to Syra’s great pain and confusion; and then ordered a grand general battue through every part of the house where Syra had been. Who for a moment could have dreamt of suspecting a noble guest at the master’s table of purloining any article, valuable or not? The old lady therefore came to the conclusion, that the scarf had been spirited away by some magical process; and greatly suspected that the black slave Afra, who she knew could not bear Syra, had been using some spell to annoy the poor girl. For she believed the Moor to be a very Canidia,[34] being often obliged to let her go out alone at night, under pretence of gathering herbs at full moon for her cosmetics, as if plucked at any other time, they would not possess the same virtues; to procure deadly poisons Euphrosyne suspected, but in reality to join in the hideous orgies of Fetichism[35] with others of her race, or to hold interviews with such as consulted her imaginary art. It was not till all was given up, and Syra found herself alone, that on more coolly recollecting the incidents of the day, she remembered the pause in Fulvius’s walk across the court, at the very spot where she had stood, and his hurried steps, after this, to the door. The conviction then flashed on her mind, that she must have there dropped her kerchief, and that he must have picked it up. That he should have passed it with indifference she believed impossible. She was confident, therefore, that it was now in his possession. After attempting to speculate on the possible consequences of this misadventure, and coming to no satisfactory conclusion, she determined to commit the matter entirely to God, and sought that repose which a good conscience was sure to render balmy and sweet.
Fabiola, on parting with Agnes, retired to her apartment; and after the usual services had been rendered to her by her other two servants and Euphrosyne, she dismissed them with a gentler manner than ever she had shown before. As soon as they had retired, she went to recline upon the couch where first we found her; when, to her disgust, she discovered lying on it the style with which she had wounded Syra. She opened a chest, and threw it in with horror; nor did she ever again use any such weapon.
She took up the volume which she had last laid down, and which had greatly amused her; but it was quite insipid, and seemed most frivolous to her. She laid it down again, and gave free course to her thoughts on all that had happened. It struck her first what a wonderful child her cousin Agnes was,—how unselfish, how pure, how simple; how sensible, too, and even wise! She determined to be her protector, her elder sister in all things. She had observed, too, as well as her father, the frequent looks which Fulvius had fixed upon her; not, indeed, those libertine looks which she herself had often borne with scorn, but designing, cunning glances, such as she thought betrayed some scheme or art, of which Agnes might become the victim. She resolved to frustrate it, whatever it might be, and arrived at exactly the opposite conclusion to her father’s about him. She made up her mind to prevent Fulvius having any access to Agnes, at least at her house; and even blamed herself for having brought one so young into the strange company which often met at her father’s table, especially as she now found that her motives for doing so had been decidedly selfish. It was nearly at the same moment that Fulvius, tossing on his couch, had come to the determination never again, if possible, to go inside Fabius’s door, and to resist or elude every invitation from him.
Fabiola had measured his character; had caught, with her penetrating eye, the affectation of his manner, and the cunning of his looks; and could not help contrasting him with the frank and generous Sebastian. “What a noble fellow that Sebastian is!” she said to herself. “How different from all the other youths that come here. Never a foolish word escapes his lips, never an unkind look darts from his bright and cheerful eye. How abstemious, as becomes a soldier, at the table; how modest, as befits a hero, about his own strength and bold actions in war, which others speak so much about. Oh, if he only felt towards me as others pretend to do—” She did not finish the sentence, but a deep melancholy seemed to steal over her whole soul.
Then Syra’s conversation, and all that had resulted from it, passed again through her mind; it was painful to her, yet she could not help dwelling on it; and she felt as if that day were a crisis in her life. Her pride had been humbled by a slave, and her mind softened, she knew not how. Had her eyes been opened in that hour; and had she been able to look up above this world, she would have seen a soft cloud like incense, but tinged with a rich carnation, rising from the bed-side of a kneeling slave (prayer and willing sacrifice of life breathed upwards together), which, when it struck the crystal footstool of a mercy-seat in heaven, fell down again as a dew of gentlest grace upon her arid heart.
She could not indeed see this; yet it was no less true; and wearied, at length she sought repose. But she too had a distressing dream. She saw a bright spot as in a delicious garden, richly illuminated by a light like noonday, but inexpressibly soft; while all around was dark. Beautiful flowers formed the sward, plants covered with richest bloom grew festooned from tree to tree, on each of which glowed golden fruit. In the midst of this space she saw the poor blind girl, with her look of happiness on her cheerful countenance, seated on the ground; while on one side, Agnes, with her sweetest simple looks, and on the other, Syra, with her quiet patient smile, hung over her and caressed her. Fabiola felt an irresistible desire to be with them; it seemed to her that they were enjoying some felicity which she had never known or witnessed; and she thought they even beckoned her to join them. She ran forward to do so, when to her horror she found a wide, and black, and deep ravine, at the bottom of which roared a torrent between herself and them. By degrees its waters rose, till they reached the upper margin of the dyke, and there flowed, though so deep, yet sparkling and brilliant, and most refreshing. Oh, for courage to plunge into this stream, through which alone the gorge could be crossed, and land in safety on the other side! And still they beckoned, urging her on to try it. But as she was standing on the brink, clasping her hands in despair, Calpurnius seemed to emerge from the dark air around, with a thick heavy curtain stretched out, on which were worked all sorts of monstrous and hideous chimeras, most curiously running into, and interwoven with, each other; and this dark veil grew and grew, till it shut out the beautiful vision from her sight. She felt disconsolate, till she seemed
to see a bright genius (as she called him), in whose features she fancied she traced a spiritualized resemblance to Sebastian, and whom she had noticed standing sorrowful at a distance, now approach her, and, smiling on her, fan her fevered face with his gold and purple wing; when she lost her vision in a calm and refreshing sleep.
OF all the Roman hills, the most distinctly traceable on every side is undoubtedly the Palatine. Augustus having chosen it for his residence, successive emperors followed his example; but gradually transformed his modest residence into a palace, which covered the entire hill. Nero, not satisfied with its dimensions, destroyed the neighborhood by fire, and then extended the imperial residence to the neighboring Esquiline; taking in the whole space now occupied between the two hills by the Coliseum. Vespasian threw down that “golden house,” of which the magnificent vaults remain, covered with beautiful paintings; and built the amphitheatre just mentioned, and other edifices, with its materials. The entrance to the palace was made, soon after this period, from the Via Sacra, or Sacred Way, close to the arch of Titus. After passing through a vestibule, the visitor found himself in a magnificent court, the plan of which can be distinctly traced. Turning from this, on the left side, he entered into an immense square space, arranged and consecrated to Adonis by Domitian, and planted with trees, shrubs, and flowers.
Still keeping to the left, you would enter into sets of chambers, constructed by Alexander Severus in honor of his
mother Mammæa, whose name they bore. They looked out opposite to the Cœlian hill, just at the angle of it, which abuts upon the later triumphal arch of Constantine, and the fountain called the Meta Sudans.[36] Here was the apartment occupied by Sebastian as a tribune, or superior officer, of the imperial guard. It consisted of a few rooms, most modestly furnished, as became a soldier and a Christian. His household was limited to a couple of freedmen, and a venerable matron, who had been his nurse, and loved him as a child. They were Christians, as were all the men in his cohort; partly by conversion, but chiefly by care in recruiting new soldiers.
It was a few evenings after the scenes described in the last chapter, that Sebastian, a couple of hours after dark, ascended the steps of the vestibule just described, in company with another youth, of whom we have already spoken. Pancratius admired and loved Sebastian with the sort of affection that an ardent young officer may be supposed to bear towards an older and gallant soldier, who receives him into his friendship. But it was not as to a soldier of Cæsar, but as to a champion of Christ, that the civilian boy looked up to the young tribune, whose generosity, noble-mindedness, and valor, were enshrouded in such a gentle, simple bearing, and were accompanied by such prudence and considerateness, as gave confidence and encouragement to all that dealt with him. And Sebastian loved Pancratius no less, on account of his single-hearted ardor, and the innocence and candor of his mind. But he well saw the dangers to which his youthful warmth and impetuosity might lead him; and he encouraged him to keep close to himself, that he might guide, and perhaps sometimes restrain him.
As they were entering the palace, that part of which Sebastian’s cohort guarded, he said to his companion: “Every time that I enter here, it strikes me how kind an act of Divine Providence it was, to plant almost at the very gate of Cæsar’s palace, the arch which commemorates at once the downfall of the first great system that was antagonistic to Christianity, and the completion of the greatest prophecy of the Gospel,—the destruction of Jerusalem by the Roman power.[37] I cannot but believe that another arch will one day arise to commemorate no less a victory, over the second enemy of our religion, the heathen Roman empire itself.”
“What! do you contemplate the overthrow of this vast empire, as the means of establishing Christianity?”
“God forbid! I would shed the last drop of my blood, as I shed my first, to maintain it. And depend upon it, when the empire is converted, it will not be by such gradual growth as we now witness, but by some means, so unhuman, so divine, as we shall never, in our most sanguine longings, forecast; but all will exclaim, ‘This is the change of the right hand of the Most High!’”
“No doubt; but your idea of a Christian triumphal arch supposes an earthly instrument; where do you imagine this to lie?”
“Why, Pancratius, my thoughts, I own, turn towards the family of one of the Augusti, as showing a slight germ of better thoughts: I mean, Constantius Chlorus.”
“But, Sebastian, how many of even our learned and good men will say, nay, do say, if you speak thus to them, that similar hopes were entertained in the reigns of Alexander, Gordian, or Aurelian; yet ended in disappointment. Why, they ask, should we not expect the same results now?”
“I know it too well, my dear Pancratius, and bitterly have I often deplored those dark views which damp our energies; that lurking thought that vengeance is perpetual, and mercy temporary, that martyr’s blood, and virgin’s prayer have no power even to shorten times of visitation, and hasten hours of grace.”
By this time they had reached Sebastian’s apartment, the principal room of which was lighted, and evidently prepared for some assembly. But opposite the door was a window open to the ground, and leading to a terrace that ran along that side of the building. The night looked so bright through it, that they both instinctively walked across the room, and stood upon the terrace. A lovely and splendid view presented itself to them. The moon was high in the heavens, swimming in them, as an Italian moon does; a round, full globe, not a flat surface, bathed all round in its own refulgent atmosphere. It dimmed, indeed, the stars near itself; but they seemed to have retired, in thicker and more brilliant clusters, into the distant corners of the azure sky. It was just such an evening as, years after, Monica and Augustine enjoyed from a window at Ostia, as they discoursed of heavenly things.
It is true that, below and around, all was beautiful and grand. The Coliseum, or Flavian amphitheatre, rose at one side, in all its completeness; and the gentle murmur of the fountain, while its waters glistened in a silvery column, like the refluent sea-wave gliding down a slanting rock, came soothingly on the ear. On the other side, the lofty building called the Septizonium of Severus, in front, towering above the Cœlian, the sumptuous baths of Caracalla, reflected from their marble walls and stately pillars the radiance of the autumn moon. But all these massive monuments of earthly glory rose unheeded before the two Christian youths, as they stood silent; the elder with his right arm round his youthful companion’s neck, and resting on his shoulder. After a long pause, he took up the thread of his last discourse, and said, in a softer tone: “I was going to show you, when we stepped out here, the very spot just below our feet, where I have often fancied the triumphal arch, to which I have alluded, would stand.[38] But who can think of such paltry things below, with the splendid vault above us, lighted up so brilliantly, as if on purpose to draw upwards our eyes and hearts?”
“True, Sebastian; and I have sometimes thought, that, if
the under-side of that firmament up to which the eye of man, however wretched and sinful, may look, be so beautiful and bright, what must that upper-side be, down upon which the eye of boundless Glory deigns to glance! I imagine it to be like a richly-embroidered veil, through the texture of which a few points of golden thread may be allowed to pass; and these only reach us. How transcendently royal must be that upper surface, on which tread the lightsome feet of angels, and of the just made perfect!”
“A graceful thought, Pancratius, and no less true. It makes the veil, between us laboring here and the triumphal church above, thin and easily to be passed.”
“And pardon me, Sebastian,” said the youth, with the same look up to his friend, as a few evenings before had met his mother’s inspired gaze, “pardon me if, while you wisely speculate upon a future arch to record the triumph of Christianity, I see already before me, built and open, the arch through which we, feeble as we are, may lead the Church speedily to the triumph of glory, and ourselves to that of bliss.”
“Where, my dear boy, where do you mean?”
Pancratius pointed steadily with his hand towards the left, and said: “There, my noble Sebastian; any of those open arches of the Flavian amphitheatre, which lead to its arena; over which, not denser than the outstretched canvas which shades our spectators, is that veil of which you spoke just now. But hark!”
“That was a lion’s roar from beneath the Cœlian!” exclaimed Sebastian, surprised. “Wild beasts must have arrived at the vivarium[39] of the amphitheatre; for I know there were none there yesterday.”
“Yes, hark!” continued Pancratius, not noticing the interruption. “These are the trumpet-notes that summon us; that is the music that must accompany us to our triumph!”
Both paused for a time, when Pancratius again broke the silence, saying: “This puts me in mind of a matter on which I want to take your advice, my faithful counsellor; will your company be soon arriving?”
“Not immediately; and they will drop in one by one; till they assemble, come into my chamber, where none will interrupt us.”
They walked along the terrace, and entered the last room of the suite. It was at the corner of the hill, exactly opposite the fountain; and was lighted only by the rays of the moon, streaming through the open window on that side. The soldier stood near this, and Pancratius sat upon his small military couch.
“What is this great affair, Pancratius,” said the officer, smiling, “upon which you wish to have my sage opinion?”
“Quite a trifle, I dare say,” replied the youth, bashfully, “for a bold and generous man like you; but an important one to an unskilful and weak boy like me.”
“A good and virtuous one, I doubt not; do let me hear it; and I promise you every assistance.”
“Well, then, Sebastian—now don’t think me foolish,” proceeded Pancratius, hesitating and blushing at every word. “You are aware I have a quantity of useless plate at home—mere lumber, you know, in our plain way of living; and my dear mother, for any thing I can say, won’t wear the lots of old-fashioned trinkets, which are lying locked up, and of no use to any body. I have no one to whom all this should descend. I am, and shall be, the last of my race. You have often told me, who in that case are a Christian’s natural heirs,—the widow and the fatherless, the helpless and the indigent. Why should these wait my death, to have what by reversion is theirs? And if a persecution is coming, why run the risk of confiscation seizing them, or of plundering lictors stealing them, whenever our lives are wanted, to the utter loss of our rightful heirs?”
“Pancratius,” said Sebastian, “I have listened without offering a remark to your noble suggestion. I wished you to have all the merit of uttering it yourself. Now, just tell me, what makes you doubt or hesitate about what I know you wish to do?”
“Why, to tell the truth, I feared it might be highly presumptuous and impertinent in one of my age to offer to do what people would be sure to imagine was something grand or generous; while I assure you, dear Sebastian, it is no such thing. For I shall not miss these things a bit; they are of no value to me whatever. But they will be to the poor, especially in the hard times coming.”
“Of course Lucina consents?”
“Oh, no fear about that! I would not touch a grain of gold-dust without her even wishing it. But why I require your assistance is principally this. I should never be able to stand its being known that I presumed to do any thing considered out of the way, especially in a boy. You understand me? So I want you, and beg of you, to get the distribution made at some other house; and as from a—say from one who needs much the prayers of the faithful, especially the poor, and desires to remain unknown.”
“I will serve you with delight, my good and truly noble boy! Hush! did you not hear the Lady Fabiola’s name just mentioned? There again, and with an epithet expressive of no good will.”
Pancratius approached the window; two voices were conversing together so close under them that the cornice between prevented their seeing the speakers, evidently a woman and a man. After a few minutes they walked out into the moonlight, almost as bright as day.
“I know that Moorish woman,” said Sebastian; “it is Fabiola’s black slave, Afra.”
“And the man,” added Pancratius, “is my late school-fellow, Corvinus.”
They considered it their duty to catch, if possible, the thread of what seemed a plot; but, as the speakers walked up and down, they could only make out a sentence here and there. We will not, however, confine ourselves to these parts, but give the entire dialogue. Only, a word first about the interlocutors.
Of the slave we know enough for the present. Corvinus was son, as we have said, to Tertullus, originally prefect of the Prætorium. This office, unknown in the republic, and of imperial creation, had, from the reign of Tiberius, gradually absorbed almost all civil as well as military power; and he who held it often discharged the duties of chief criminal judge in Rome. It required no little strength of nerve to occupy this post to the satisfaction of despotic and unsparing masters. To sit all day in a tribunal, surrounded with hideous implements of torture, unmoved by the moans or the shrieks of old men, youths, or women, on whom they were tried; to direct a cool interrogatory to one stretched upon the rack, and quivering in agony on one side, while the last sentence of beating to death with bullet-laden scourges was being executed on the other; to sleep calmly after such scenes, and rise with appetite for their repetition, was not an occupation to which every member of the bar could be supposed to aspire. Tertullus had been brought from Sicily to fill the office, not because he was a cruel, but because he was a cold-hearted, man, not susceptible of pity or partiality. His tribunal, however, was Corvinus’s early school; he could sit, while quite a boy, for hours at his father’s feet, thoroughly enjoying the cruel spectacles before him, and angry when any one got off. He grew up sottish, coarse, and brutal; and not yet arrived at man’s estate, his bloated and freckled countenance and blear eyes, one of which was half closed, announced him to be already a dissolute and dissipated character. Without taste for any thing refined, or ability for any learning, he united in himself a certain amount of animal courage and strength, and a considerable measure of low cunning. He had never experienced in himself a generous feeling, and he had never curbed an evil passion. No one had ever offended him, whom he did not hate, and pursue with vengeance. Two, above all, he had sworn never to forgive—the school-master who had often chastised him for his sulky idleness, and the school-fellow who had blessed him for his brutal contumely. Justice and mercy, good and evil done to him, were equally odious to him.
Tertullus had no fortune to give him, and he seemed to have little genius to make one. To become possessed of one, however, was all-important to his mind; for wealth, as the means of gratifying his desires, was synonymous with him to supreme felicity. A rich heiress, or rather her dower, seemed the simplest object at which to aim. Too awkward, shy, and stupid to make himself a way in society, he sought other means, more kindred to his mind, for the attainment of his ambitious or avaricious desires. What these means were, his conversation with the black slave will best explain.
“I have come to meet you at the Meta Sudans again, for the fourth time, at this inconvenient hour. What news have you for me?”
“None, except that after to-morrow my mistress starts for her villa at Cajeta,[40] and of course I go with her. I shall want more money to carry on my operations in your favor.”
“More still? You have had all I have received from my father for months.”
“Why, do you know what Fabiola is?”
“Yes, to be sure, the richest match in Rome.”
“The haughty and cold-hearted Fabiola is not so easily to be won.”
“But yet you promised me that your charms and potions would secure me her acceptance, or at any rate her fortune. What expense can these things cause?”
“Very great indeed. The most precious ingredients are requisite, and must be paid for. And do you think I will go out at such an hour as this amidst the tombs of the Appian Way, to gather my simples, without being properly rewarded? But how do you mean to second my efforts? I have told you this would hasten their success.”
“And how can I? You know I am not cut out by nature, or fitted by accomplishments, to make much impression on any one’s affections. I would rather trust to the power of your black art.”
“Then let me give you one piece of advice; if you have no grace or gift by which you can gain Fabiola’s heart——”
“Fortune, you mean.”
“They cannot be separated;—depend upon it, there is one thing which you may bring with you that is irresistible.”
“What is that?”
“Gold.”
“And where am I to get it? it is that I seek.”
The black slave smiled maliciously, and said:
“Why cannot you get it as Fulvius does?”
“How does he get it?”
“By blood!”
“How do you know it?”
“I have made acquaintance with an old attendant that he has, who, if not as dark as I am in skin, fully makes up for it in his heart. His language and mine are sufficiently allied for us to be able to converse. He has asked me many questions about poisons, and pretended he would purchase my liberty, and take me back home as his wife; but I have something better than that in prospect, I trust. However, I got all that I wanted out from him.”
“And what was that?”
“Why, that Fulvius had discovered a great conspiracy against Dioclesian; and from the wink of the old man’s awful eye, I understood he had hatched it first; and he has been sent with strong recommendations to Rome to be employed in the same line.”
“But I have no ability either to make or to discover conspiracies, though I may have to punish them.”
“One way, however, is easy.”
“What is that?”
“In my country there are large birds, which you may attempt in vain to run down with the fleetest horses; but which, if you look about for them quietly, are the first to betray themselves, for they only hide their heads.”
“What do you wish to represent by this?”
“The Christians. Is there not going to be a persecution of them soon?”
“Yes, and a most fierce one; such as has never been before.”
“Then follow my advice. Do not tire yourself with hunting them down, and catching, after all, but mean prey; keep your eyes open and look about for one or two good fat ones, half trying to conceal themselves; pounce upon them, get a good share of their confiscation, and come with one good handful to get two in return.”
“Thank you, thank you; I understand you. You are not fond of these Christians, then?”
“Fond of them? I hate the entire race. The spirits which I worship are the deadly enemies of their very name.” And she grinned horrible a ghastly smile as she proceeded: “I suspect one of my fellow-servants is one. Oh, how I detest her!”
“What makes you think it?”
“In the first place, she would not tell a lie for anything, and gets us all into dreadful scrapes by her absurd truthfulness.”
“Good! what next?”
“Then she cares not for money or gifts; and so prevents our having them offered.”
“Better!”
“And moreover she is—” the last word died in the ear of Corvinus, who replied:
“Well, indeed, I have to-day been out of the gate to meet a caravan of your countryfolk coming in; but you beat them all!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Afra with delight, “who were they?”
“Simply Africans,”[41] replied Corvinus, with a laugh: “lions, panthers, leopards.”
“Wretch! do you insult me thus?”
“Come, come, be pacified. They are brought expressly to rid you of your hateful Christians. Let us part friends. Here is your money. But let it be the last; and let me know when the philtres begin to work. I will not forget your hint about Christian money. It is quite to my taste.”
As he departed by the Sacred Way, she pretended to go along the Carinæ, the street between the Palatine and the Cœlian mounts; then turned back, and looking after him, exclaimed: “Fool! to think that I am going to try experiments for you on a person of Fabiola’s character!”
She followed him at a distance; but as Sebastian, to his amazement, thought, turned into the vestibule of the palace. He determined at once to put Fabiola on her guard against this new plot; but this could not be done till her return from the country.
WHEN the two youths returned to the room by which they had entered the apartment, they found the expected company assembled. A frugal repast was laid upon the table, principally as a blind to any intruder who might happen unexpectedly to enter. The assembly was large and varied, containing clergy and laity, men and women. The purpose of the meeting was to concert proper measures, in consequence of something which had lately occurred in the palace. This we must briefly explain.
Sebastian, enjoying the unbounded confidence of the emperor, employed all his influence in propagating the Christian faith within the palace. Numerous conversions had gradually been made; but shortly before this period there had been a wholesale one effected, the particulars of which are recorded in the genuine Acts of this glorious soldier. In virtue of former laws, many Christians were seized and brought to trial, which often ended in death. Two brothers, Marcus and Marcellianus, had been so accused, and were expecting execution; when their friends, admitted to see them, implored them with tears to save their lives by apostasy. They seemed to waver; they promised to deliberate. Sebastian heard of this, and rushed to save them. He was too well known to be refused admittance, and he entered into their gloomy prison like an angel of light. It consisted of a strong room in the house of the magistrate to whose care they had been intrusted. The place of confinement was generally left to that officer; and here Tranquillinus, the father of the two youths, had obtained a respite for them of thirty days to try to shake their constancy; and, to second his efforts, Nicostratus, the magistrate, had placed them in custody in his own house. Sebastian’s was a bold and perilous office. Besides the two Christian captives, there were gathered in the place sixteen heathen prisoners; there were the parents of the unfortunate youths weeping over them, and caressing them, to allure them from their threatened doom; there was the gaoler, Claudius, and there was the magistrate, Nicostratus, with his wife, Zoë, drawn thither by the compassionate wish of seeing the youths snatched from their fate. Could Sebastian hope, that of this crowd not one would be found, whom a sense of official duty, or a hope of pardon, or hatred of Christianity, might impel to betray him, if he avowed himself a Christian? And did he not know that such a betrayal involved his death?
He knew it well; but what cared he? If three victims would thus be offered to God instead of two, so much the better; all that he dreaded was, that there should be none. The room was a banqueting-hall but seldom opened in the day, and consequently requiring very little light; what it had, entered only, as in the Pantheon, by an opening in the roof; and Sebastian, anxious to be seen by all, stood in the ray which now darted through it, strong and brilliant where it beat, but leaving the rest of the apartment almost dark. It broke against the gold and jewels of his rich tribune’s armor, and, as he moved, scattered itself in sparks of brilliant hues into the darkest recesses of that gloom; while it beamed with serene steadiness upon his uncovered head, and displayed his noble features, softened by an emotion of tender grief, as he looked upon the two vacillating confessors. It was some moments before he could give vent in words to the violence of his grief, till at length it broke forth in impassioned tones.
“Holy and venerable brothers,” he exclaimed, “who have borne witness to Christ; who are imprisoned for Him; whose limbs are marked by chains worn for His sake; who have tasted torments with Him,—I ought to fall at your feet and do you homage, and ask your prayers; instead of standing before you as your exhorter, still less as your reprover. Can this be true which I have heard, that while angels were putting the last flower to your crowns, you have bid them pause, and even thought of telling them to unweave them, and scatter their blossoms to the winds? Can I believe that you who have already your feet on the threshold of Paradise, are thinking of drawing them back, to tread once more the valley of exile and of tears?”
The two youths hung down their heads and wept in humble confession of their weakness. Sebastian proceeded:
“You cannot meet the eye of a poor soldier like me, the least of Christ’s servants: how then will you stand the angry glance of the Lord whom you are about to deny before men (but cannot in your hearts deny), on that terrible day, when He, in return, will deny you before His angels? When, instead of standing manfully before Him, like good and faithful servants, as to-morrow ye might have done, you shall have to come into His presence after having crawled through a few more years of infamy, disowned by the Church, despised by its enemies, and, what is worse, gnawed by an undying worm, and victims of a sleepless remorse?”
“Cease; oh, in pity cease, young man, whoever thou art,” exclaimed Tranquillinus, the father of the youths. “Speak not thus severely to my sons; it was, I assure thee, to their mother’s tears and to my entreaties that they had begun to yield, and not to the tortures which they have endured with such fortitude. Why should they leave their wretched parents to misery and sorrow? does thy religion command this, and dost thou call it holy?”
“Wait in patience, my good old man,” said Sebastian, with the kindest look and accent, “and let me speak first with thy sons. They know what I mean, which thou canst not yet; but with God’s grace thou too shalt soon. Your father, indeed, is right in saying, that for his sake and your mother’s you have been deliberating whether you should not prefer them to Him who told you, ‘He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.’ You cannot hope to purchase for these your aged parents, eternal life by your own loss of it. Will you make them Christians by abandoning Christianity? will you make them soldiers of the Cross by deserting its standard? will you teach them that its doctrines are more precious than life, by preferring life to them? Do you want to gain for them, not the mortal life of the perishable body, but the eternal life of the soul? then hasten yourselves to its acquisition; throw down at the feet of your Saviour the crowns you will receive, and entreat for your parents’ salvation.”
“Enough, enough, Sebastian, we are resolved,” cried out together both the brothers.
“Claudius,” said one, “put on me again the chains you have taken off.”
“Nicostratus,” added the other, “give orders for the sentence to be carried out.”
Yet neither Claudius nor Nicostratus moved.
“Farewell, dear father; adieu, dearest mother,” they in turn said, embracing their parents.
“No,” replied the father, “we part no more. Nicostratus, go tell Chromatius that I am from this moment a Christian with my sons; I will die with them for a religion which can make heroes thus of boys.” “And I,” continued the mother, “will not be separated from my husband and children.”
The scene which followed baffles description. All were moved; all wept; the prisoners joined in the tumult of these new affections; and Sebastian saw himself surrounded by a group of men and women smitten by grace, softened by its influences, and subdued by its power; yet all was lost if one remained behind. He saw the danger, not to himself, but to the Church, if a sudden discovery were made, and to those souls fluttering upon the confines of life. Some hung upon his arms; some clasped his knees; some kissed his feet, as though he had been a spirit of peace, such as visited Peter in his dungeon at Jerusalem.
Two alone had expressed no thought. Nicostratus was indeed moved, but by no means conquered. His feelings were agitated, but his convictions unshaken. His wife, Zoë, knelt before Sebastian with a beseeching look and outstretched arms, but she spoke not a word.
“Come, Sebastian,” said the keeper of the records, for such was Nicostratus’s office; “it is time for thee to depart. I cannot but admire the sincerity of belief, and the generosity of heart, which can make thee act as thou hast done, and which impel these young men to death; but my duty is imperative, and must overweigh my private feelings.”
“And dost not thou believe with the rest?”
“No, Sebastian, I yield not so easily; I must have stronger evidences than even thy virtue.”
“Oh, speak to him then, thou!” said Sebastian to Zoë; “speak, faithful wife; speak to thy husband’s heart; for I am mistaken indeed, if those looks of thine tell me not that thou at least believest.”
Zoë covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of tears.
“Thou hast touched her to the quick, Sebastian,” said her husband; “knowest thou not that she is dumb?”
“I knew it not, noble Nicostratus; for when last I saw her in Asia she could speak.”
“For six years,” replied the other, with a faltering voice, “her once eloquent tongue has been paralyzed, and she has not uttered a single word.”
Sebastian was silent for a moment; then suddenly he threw out his arms, and stretched them forth, as the Christians always did in prayer, and raised his eyes to heaven; then burst forth in these words:
“O God! Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the beginning of this work is Thine; let its accomplishment be Thine alone. Put forth Thy power, for it is needed; intrust it for once to the weakest and poorest of instruments. Let me, though most unworthy, so wield the sword of Thy victorious Cross, as that the spirits of darkness may fly before it, and Thy salvation may embrace us all! Zoë, look up once more to me.”
All were hushed in silence, when Sebastian, after a moment’s silent prayer, with his right hand made over her mouth the sign of the cross, saying: “Zoë, speak; dost thou believe?”
“I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ,” she replied, in a clear and firm voice, and fell upon Sebastian’s feet.
It was almost a shriek that Nicostratus uttered, as he threw himself on his knees, and bathed Sebastian’s right hand with tears.
The victory was complete. Every one was gained; and immediate steps were taken to prevent discovery. The person responsible for the prisoners could take them where he wished; and Nicostratus transferred them all, with Tranquillinus and his wife, to the full liberty of his house. Sebastian lost no time in putting them under the care of the holy priest Polycarp, of the title of St. Pastor. It was a case so peculiar, and requiring such concealment, and the times were so threatening, and all new irritations had so much to be avoided, that the instruction was hurried, and continued night and day: so that baptism was quickly administered.
The new Christian flock was encouraged and consoled by a fresh wonder. Tranquillinus, who was suffering severely from the gout, was restored to instant and complete health by baptism. Chromatius was the prefect of the city, to whom Nicostratus was liable for his prisoners; and this officer could not long conceal from him what had happened. It was indeed a matter of life or death to them all; but, strengthened now by faith, they were prepared for either. Chromatius was a man of upright character, and not fond of persecution; and listened with interest to the account of what had occurred. But when he heard of Tranquillinus’s cure, he was greatly struck. He was himself a victim to the same disease, and suffered agonies of pain. “If,” he said, “what you relate be true, and if I can have personal experience of this healing power, I certainly will not resist its evidence.”
Sebastian was sent for. To have administered baptism without faith preceding, as an experiment of its healing virtue, would have been a superstition. Sebastian took another course, which will be later described, and Chromatius completely recovered. He received baptism soon after, with his son Tibertius.
It was clearly impossible for him to continue in his office, and he had accordingly resigned it to the emperor. Tertullus, the father of the hopeful Corvinus, and prefect of the Prætorium, had been named his successor; so the reader will perceive that the events just related from the Acts of St. Sebastian, had occurred a little before our narrative begins; for in an early chapter we spoke of Corvinus’s father as already prefect of the city.
Let us now come down again to the evening in which Sebastian and Pancratius met most of the persons above enumerated in the officer’s chamber. Many of them resided in, or about, the palace; and besides them were present Castulus, who held a high situation at court,[42] and his wife Irene. Several previous meetings had been held, to decide upon some plan for securing the completer instruction of the converts, and for withdrawing from observation so many persons, whose change of life and retirement from office would excite wonder and inquiry. Sebastian had obtained permission from the emperor for Chromatius to retire to a country-house in Campania; and it had been arranged that a considerable number of the neophytes should join him there, and, forming one household, should go on with religious instruction, and unite in common offices of piety. The season was come when every body retired to the country, and the emperor himself was going to the coast of Naples, and thence would take a journey to southern Italy. It was therefore a favorable moment for carrying out the preconcerted plan. Indeed the Pope, we are told, on the Sunday following this conversion, celebrated the divine mysteries in the house of Nicostratus, and proposed this withdrawal from the city.