At this meeting all details were arranged; different parties were to start, in the course of the following days, by various roads—some direct by the Appian, some along the Latin, others round by Tibur and a mountain road, through Arpinum; but all were to meet at the villa, not far from Capua. Through the whole discussion of these somewhat tedious arrangements, Torquatus, one of the former prisoners, converted by Sebastian’s visit, showed himself forward, impatient, and impetuous. He found fault with every plan, seemed discontented with the directions given him, spoke almost contemptuously of this flight from danger, as he called it; and boasted that, for his part, he was ready to go into the Forum on the morrow, and overthrow any altar, or confront any judge, as a Christian. Every thing was said and done to soothe, and even to cool him; and it was felt to be most important that he should be taken with the rest into the country. He insisted, however, upon going his own way.
Only one more point remained to be decided: it was, who should head the little colony, and direct its operations. Here was renewed a contest of love between the holy priest Polycarp and Sebastian; each wishing to remain in Rome, and have the first chance of martyrdom. But now the difference was cut short by a letter brought in, from the Pope, addressed to his “Beloved son Polycarp, priest of the title of St. Pastor,” in which he commanded him to accompany the converts, and leave Sebastian to the arduous duty of encouraging confessors, and protecting Christians in Rome. To hear was to obey; and the meeting broke up with a prayer of thanksgiving.
Sebastian, after bidding affectionate farewell to his friends, insisted upon accompanying Pancratius home. As they were leaving the room, the latter remarked, “Sebastian, I do not like that Torquatus. I fear he will give us trouble.”
“To tell the truth,” answered the soldier, “I would rather he were different; but we must remember that he is a neophyte, and will improve in time, and by grace.”
As they passed into the entrance-court of the palace, they heard a Babel of uncouth sounds, with coarse laughter and occasional yells, proceeding from the adjoining yard, in which were the quarters of the Mauritanian archers. A fire seemed to be blazing in the midst of it, for the smoke and sparks rose above the surrounding porticoes.
Sebastian accosted the sentinel in the court where they were, and asked: “Friend, what is going on there among our neighbors?”
“The black slave,” he replied, “who is their priestess, and who is betrothed to their captain, if she can purchase her freedom, has come in for some midnight rites, and this horrid turmoil takes place every time she comes.”
“Indeed!” said Pancratius, “and can you tell me what is the religion these Africans follow?”
“I do not know, sir,” replied the legionary, “unless they be what are called Christians.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Why, I have heard that the Christians meet by night, and sing detestable songs, and commit all sorts of crimes; and cook and eat the flesh of a child murdered for the purpose[43]—just what might seem to be going on here.”
“Good night, comrade,” said Sebastian; and then exclaimed, as they were issuing from the vestibule, “Is it not strange, Pancratius, that, in spite of all our efforts, we who are conscious that we worship only the One living God in spirit and truth, who know what care we take to keep ourselves undefiled by sin, and who would die rather than speak an unclean word, should yet, after 300 years, be confounded by the people with the followers of the most degraded superstitions, and have our worship ranked with the very idolatry, which above all things we abhor? ‘How long, O Lord! how long?’”
“So long,” said Pancratius, pausing on the steps outside the vestibule, and looking at the now declining moon, “so long as we shall continue to walk in this pale light, and until the Sun of Justice shall rise upon our country in His beauty, and enrich it with His splendor. Sebastian, tell me, whence do you best like to see the sun rise?”
“The most lovely sunrise I have ever seen,” replied the soldier, as if humoring his companion’s fanciful question, “was from the top of the Latial mountain,[44] by the temple of Jupiter. The sun rose behind the mountain, and projected its huge shadow like a pyramid over the plain, and far upon the sea; then, as it rose higher, this lessened and withdrew; and every moment some new object caught the light, first the galleys and skiffs upon the water, then the shore with its dancing waves; and by degrees one white edifice after the other sparkled in the fresh beams, till at last majestic Rome itself, with its towering pinnacles, basked in the effulgence of day. It was a glorious sight, indeed; such as could not have been witnessed or imagined by those below.”
“Just what I should have expected, Sebastian,” observed Pancratius; “and so it will be when that more brilliant sun rises fully upon this benighted country. How beautiful will it then be to behold the shades retiring, and each moment one and another of the charms, as yet concealed, of our holy faith and worship starting into light, till the imperial city itself shines forth a holy type of the city of God. Will they who live in those times see these beauties, and worthily value them? Or, will they look only at the narrow space around them, and hold their hands before their eyes, to shade them from the sudden glare? I know not, dear Sebastian, but I hope that you and I will look down upon that grand spectacle, from where alone it can be duly appreciated, from a mountain higher than Jupiter’s, be he Alban or be he Olympian,—dwelling on that holy mount, whereon stands the Lamb, from whose feet flow the streams of life.”[45]
They continued their walk in silence through the brilliantly-lighted streets;[46] and when they had reached Lucina’s house, and had affectionately bid one another good-night, Pancratius seemed to hesitate a moment, and then said:
“Sebastian, you said something this evening, which I should much like to have explained.”
“What was it?”
“When you were contending with Polycarp, about going into Campania, or remaining in Rome, you promised that if you stayed you would be most cautious, and not expose yourself to unnecessary risks; then you added, that there was one purpose in your mind which would effectually restrain you; but that when that was accomplished, you would find it difficult to check your longing ardor to give your life for Christ.”
“And why, Pancratius, do you desire so much to know this foolish thought of mine?”
“Because I own I am really curious to learn what can be the object high enough to check in you the aspiration, after what I know you consider to be the very highest of a Christian’s aim.”
“I am sorry, my dear boy, that it is not in my power to tell you now. But you shall know it sometime.”
“Do you promise me?”
“Yes, most solemnly. God bless you!”
WE will take advantage of the holiday which Rome is enjoying, sending out its inhabitants to the neighboring hills, or to the whole line of sea-coast from Genoa to Pæstum, for amusement on land and water: and, in a merely didactic way, endeavor to communicate to our reader some information, which may throw light on what we have already written, and prepare him for what will follow.
From the very compressed form in which the early history of the Church is generally studied, and from the unchronological arrangement of the saints’ biographies, as we usually read them, we may easily be led to an erroneous idea of the state of our first Christian ancestors. This may happen in two different ways.
We may come to imagine, that during the first three centuries the Church was suffering unrespited, under active persecution; that the faithful worshipped in fear and trembling, and almost lived in the catacombs; that bare existence, with scarcely an opportunity for outward development or inward organization, none for splendor, was all that religion could enjoy; that, in fine, it was a period of conflict and of tribulation, without an interval of peace or consolation. On the other hand, we may suppose, that those three centuries were divided into epochs by ten distinct persecutions, some of longer and some of shorter duration, but definitely separated from one another by breathing times of complete rest.
Either of these views is erroneous; and we desire to state more accurately the real condition of the Christian Church, under the various circumstances of that most pregnant portion of her history.
When once persecution had broken loose upon the Church, it may be said never entirely to have relaxed its hold, till her final pacification under Constantine. An edict of persecution once issued by an emperor was seldom recalled; and though the rigor of its enforcement might gradually relax or cease, through the accession of a milder ruler, still it never became completely a dead letter, but was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a cruel or bigoted governor of a city or province. Hence, in the intervals between the greater general persecutions, ordered by a new decree, we find many martyrs, who owed their crowns either to popular fury, or to the hatred of Christianity in local rulers. Hence also we read of a bitter persecution being carried on in one part of the empire, while other portions enjoyed complete peace.
Perhaps a few examples of the various phases of persecution will illustrate the real relations of the primitive Church with the State, better than mere description; and the more learned reader can pass over this digression, or must have the patience to hear repeated, what he is so familiar with, that it will seem commonplace.
Trajan was by no means one of the cruel emperors; on the contrary, he was habitually just and merciful. Yet, though he published no new edicts against the Christians, many noble martyrs—amongst them St. Ignatius, bishop of Antioch, at Rome, and St. Simeon at Jerusalem—glorified their Lord in his reign. Indeed, when Pliny the younger consulted him on the manner in which he should deal with
Christians, who might be brought before him as governor of Bithynia, the emperor gave him a rule which exhibits the lowest standard of justice: that they were not to be sought out; but if accused, they were to be punished. Adrian, who issued no decree of persecution, gave a similar reply to a similar question from Serenius Granianus, pro-consul of Asia. And under him, too, and even by his own orders, cruel martyrdom was suffered by the intrepid Symphorosa and her seven sons at Tibur, or Tivoli. A beautiful inscription found in the catacombs mentions Marius, a young officer, who shed his blood for Christ under this emperor.[47] Indeed, St. Justin Martyr, the great apologist of Christianity, informs us that he owed his conversion to the constancy of the martyrs under this emperor.
In like manner, before the Emperor Septimus Severus had published his persecuting edicts, many Christians had suffered torments and death. Such were the celebrated martyrs of Scillita in Africa, and SS. Perpetua and Felicitas, with their companions; the Acts of whose martyrdom, containing the diary of the first noble lady, twenty years of age, brought down by herself to the eve of her death, form one of the most touching, and exquisitely beautiful, documents preserved to us from the ancient Church.
From these historical facts it will be evident, that while there was from time to time a more active, severe, and general persecution of the Christian name all through the empire, there were partial and local cessations, and sometimes even a general suspension, of its rigor. An occurrence of this sort has secured for us most interesting information, connected with our subject. When the persecution of Severus had relaxed in other parts, it happened that Scapula, pro-consul of Africa, prolonged it in his province with unrelenting cruelty. He had condemned, among others, Mavilus of Adrumetum to be devoured by beasts, when he was seized with a severe illness. Tertullian, the oldest Christian Latin writer, addressed a letter to him, in which he bids him take warning from this visitation, and repent of his crimes; reminding him of many judgments which had befallen cruel judges of the Christians, in various parts of the world. Yet such was the charity of those holy men, that he tells him they were offering up earnest prayers for their enemy’s recovery!
He then goes on to inform him, that he may very well fulfil his duties without practising cruelty, by acting as other magistrates had done. For instance, Cincius Severus suggested to the accused the answers they should make, to be acquitted. Vespronius Candidus dismissed a Christian, on the ground that his condemnation would encourage tumults. Asper, seeing one ready to yield upon the application of slight torments, would not press him further; and expressed regret that such a case should have been brought before him. Pudens, on reading an act of accusation, declared the title informal, because calumnious, and tore it up.
We thus see how much might depend upon the temper, and perhaps the tendencies, of governors and judges, in the enforcing even of imperial edicts of persecution. And St. Ambrose tells us that some governors boasted that they had brought back from their provinces their swords unstained with blood (incruentos enses).
We can also easily understand how, at any particular time, a savage persecution might rage in Gaul, or Africa, or Asia, while the main part of the Church was enjoying peace. But Rome was undoubtedly the place most subject to frequent outbreaks of the hostile spirit; so that it might be considered as the privilege of its pontiffs, during the first three centuries, to bear the witness of blood to the faith which they taught. To be elected Pope was equivalent to being promoted to martyrdom.
At the period of our narrative, the Church was in one of those longer intervals of comparative peace, which gave opportunity for great development. From the death of Valerian, in 268, there had been no new formal persecution, though the interval is glorified by many noble martyrdoms. During such periods, the Christians were able to carry out their religious system with completeness, and even with splendor. The city was divided into districts or parishes, each having its title, or church, served by priests, deacons, and inferior ministers. The poor were supported, the sick visited, catechumens instructed; the Sacraments were administered, daily worship was practised, and the penitential canons were enforced by the clergy of each title; and collections were made for these purposes, and others connected with religious charity, and its consequence, hospitality. It is recorded, that in 250, during the pontificate of Cornelius, there were in Rome forty-six priests, a hundred and fifty-four inferior ministers, who were supported by the alms of the faithful, together with fifteen hundred poor.[48] This number of the priests pretty nearly corresponds to that of the titles, which St. Optatus tells us there were in Rome.
Although the tombs of the martyrs in the catacombs continued to be objects of devotion during these more peaceful intervals, and these asylums of the persecuted were kept in order and repair, they did not then serve for the ordinary places of worship. The churches to which we have already alluded were often public, large, and even splendid; and heathens used to be present at the sermons delivered in them, and such portions of the liturgy as were open to catechumens. But generally they were in private houses, probably made out of the large halls, or triclinia, which the nobler mansions contained. Thus we know that many of the titles in Rome were originally of that character. Tertullian mentions Christian cemeteries under a name, and with circumstances, which show that they were above ground, for he compares them to “threshing-floors,” which were necessarily exposed to the air.
A custom of ancient Roman life will remove an objection which may arise, as to how considerable multitudes could assemble in these places without attracting attention, and consequently persecution. It was usual for what may be called a levée to be held every morning by the rich, attended by dependents, or clients, and messengers from their friends, either slaves or freedmen, some of whom were admitted into
the inner court, to the master’s presence, while others only presented themselves, and were dismissed. Hundreds might thus go in and out of a great house, in addition to the crowd of domestic slaves, tradespeople and others who had access to it, through the principal or the back entrance, and little or no notice would be taken of the circumstance.
There is another important phenomenon in the social life of the early Christians, which one would hardly know how to believe, were not evidence of it brought before us in the most authentic Acts of the martyrs, and in ecclesiastical history. It is, the concealment which they contrived to practise. No doubt can be entertained, that persons were moving in the highest society, were occupying conspicuous public situations, were near the persons of the emperors, who were Christians; and yet were not suspected to be such by their most intimate heathen friends. Nay, cases occurred where the nearest relations were kept in total ignorance on this subject. No lie, no dissembling, no action especially, inconsistent with Christian morality or Christian truth, was ever permitted to ensure such secrecy. But every precaution compatible with complete uprightness was taken to conceal Christianity from the public eye.[49]
However necessary this prudential course might be, to prevent any wanton persecution, its consequences fell often heavily upon those who held it. The heathen world, the world of power, of influence, and of state, the world which made laws as best suited it, and executed them, the world that loved earthly prosperity and hated faith, felt itself surrounded, filled, compenetrated by a mysterious system, which spread, no one could see how, and exercised an influence derived no one knew whence. Families were startled at finding a son or daughter to have embraced this new law, with which they were not aware that they had been in contact, and which, in their heated fancies and popular views, they considered stupid, grovelling, and anti-social. Hence the hatred of Christianity was political as well as religious; the system was considered as un-Roman, as having an interest opposed to the extension and prosperity of the empire, and as obeying an unseen and spiritual power. The Christians were pronounced irreligiosi in Cæsares, “disloyal to the emperors,” and that was enough. Hence their security and peace depended much upon the state of popular feeling; when any demagogue or fanatic could succeed in rousing this, neither their denial of the charges brought against them, nor their peaceful demeanor, nor the claims of civilized life, could suffice to screen them from such measure of persecution as could be safely urged against them.
After these digressive remarks, we will resume, and unite again the broken thread of our narrative.
THE hints of the African slave had not been thrown away upon the sordid mind of Corvinus. Her own hatred of Christianity arose from the circumstance, that a former mistress of hers had become a Christian and had manumitted all her other slaves; but, feeling it wrong to turn so dangerous a character as Afra, or rather Jubala (her proper name), upon the world, had transferred her to another proprietor.
Corvinus had often seen Fulvius at the baths and other places of public resort, had admired and envied him, for his appearance, his dress, his conversation. But with his untoward shyness, or moroseness, he could never have found courage to address him, had he not now discovered, that though a more refined, he was not a less profound, villain than himself. Fulvius’s wit and cleverness might supply the want of these qualities in his own sottish composition, while his own brute force, and unfeeling recklessness, might be valuable auxiliaries to those higher gifts. He had the young stranger in his power, by the discovery which he had made of his real character. He determined, therefore, to make an effort, and enter into alliance with one who otherwise might prove a dangerous rival.
It was about ten days after the meeting last described, that Corvinus went to stroll in Pompey’s gardens. These covered the space round his theatre, in the neighborhood of the present Piazza Farnese. A conflagration in the reign of Carinus had lately destroyed the scene, as it was called, of the edifice, and Dioclesian had repaired it with great magnificence. The gardens were distinguished from others by rows of plane-trees, which formed a delicious shade. Statues of wild beasts, fountains, and artificial brooks, profusely adorned them. While sauntering about, Corvinus caught a sight of Fulvius, and made up to him.
“What do you want with me?” asked the foreigner, with a look of surprise and scorn at the slovenly dress of Corvinus.
“To have a talk with you, which may turn out to your advantage—and mine.”
“What can you propose to me, with the first of these recommendations? No doubt at all as to the second.”
“Fulvius, I am a plain-spoken man, and have no pretensions to your cleverness and elegance; but we are both of one trade, and both consequently of one mind.”
Fulvius started, and deeply colored; then said, with a contemptuous air, “What do you mean, sirrah?”
“If you double your fist,” rejoined Corvinus, “to show me the fine rings on your delicate fingers, it is very well. But if you mean to threaten by it, you may as well put your hand again into the folds of your toga. It is more graceful.”
“Cut this matter short, sir. Again I ask, what do you mean?”
“This, Fulvius,” and he whispered into his ear, “that you are a spy and an informer.”
Fulvius was staggered; then rallying, said, “What right have you to make such an odious charge against me?”
“You discovered” (with a strong emphasis) “a conspiracy in the East, and Dioclesian—”
Fulvius stopped him, and asked, “What is your name, and who are you?”
“I am Corvinus, the son of Tertullus, prefect of the city.”
This seemed to account for all; and Fulvius said, in subdued tones, “No more here; I see friends coming. Meet me disguised at daybreak to-morrow in the Patrician Street,[50] under the portico of the Baths of Novatus. We will talk more at leisure.”
Corvinus returned home, not ill-satisfied with his first attempt at diplomacy; he procured a garment shabbier than his own from one of his father’s slaves, and was at the appointed spot by the first dawn of day. He had to wait a long time, and had almost lost patience, when he saw his new friend approach.
Fulvius was well wrapped up in a large overcoat, and wore its hood over his face. He thus saluted Corvinus:
“Good morning, comrade; I fear I have kept you waiting in the cold morning air, especially as you are thinly clad.”
“I own,” replied Corvinus, “that I should have been tired, had I not been immensely amused and yet puzzled, by what I have been observing.”
“What is that?”
“Why, from an early hour, long, I suspect, before my coming, there have been arriving here from every side, and entering into that house, by the back door in the narrow street, the rarest collection of miserable objects that you ever saw; the blind, the lame, the maimed, the decrepit, the deformed of every possible shape; while by the front door several persons have entered, evidently of a different class.”
“Whose dwelling is it, do you know? It looks a large old house, but rather out of condition.”
“It belongs to a very rich, and, it is said, very miserly old patrician. But look! there come some more.”
At that moment a very feeble man, bent down by age, was approaching, supported by a young and cheerful girl, who chatted most kindly to him as she supported him.
“We are just there,” she said to him; “a few more steps, and you shall sit down and rest.”
“Thank you, my child,” replied the poor old man, “how kind of you to come for me so early!”
“I knew,” she said, “you would want help; and as I am the most useless person about, I thought I would go and fetch you.”
“I have always heard that blind people are selfish, and it seems but natural; but you, Cæcilia, are certainly an exception.”
“Not at all; this is only my way of showing selfishness.”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, first, I get the advantage of your eyes, and then I get the satisfaction of supporting you. ‘I was an eye to the blind,’ that is you; and ‘a foot to the lame,’ that is myself.”[51]
They reached the door as she spoke these words.
“That girl is blind,” said Fulvius to Corvinus. “Do you not see how straight she walks, without looking right or left?”
“So she is,” answered the other. “Surely this is not the place so often spoken of, where beggars meet, and the blind see, and the lame walk, and all feast together? But yet I observed these people were so different from the mendicants on the Arician bridge.[52] They appeared respectable and even cheerful; and not one asked me for alms as he passed.”
“It is very strange; and I should like to discover the mystery. A good job might, perhaps, be got out of it. The old patrician, you say, is very rich?”
“Immensely!”
“Humph! How could one manage to get in?”
“I have it! I will take off my shoes, screw up one leg like a cripple, and join the next group of queer ones that come, and go boldly in, doing as they do.”
“That will hardly succeed; depend upon it every one of these people is known at the house.”
“I am sure not, for several of them asked me if this was the house of the Lady Agnes.”
“Of whom?” asked Fulvius, with a start.
“Why do you look so?” said Corvinus. “It is the house of her parents: but she is better known than they, as being a young heiress, nearly as rich as her cousin Fabiola.”
Fulvius paused for a moment; a strong suspicion, too subtle and important to be communicated to his rude companion, flashed through his mind. He said, therefore, to Corvinus:
“If you are sure that these people are not familiar at the house, try your plan. I have met the lady before, and will venture by the front door. Thus we shall have a double chance.”
“Do you know what I am thinking, Fulvius?”
“Something very bright, no doubt.”
“That when you and I join in any enterprise, we shall always have two chances.”
“What are they?”
“The fox’s and the wolf’s, when they conspire to rob a fold.”
Fulvius cast on him a look of disdain, which Corvinus returned by a hideous leer; and they separated for their respective posts.
AS we do not choose to enter the house of Agnes, either with the wolf or with the fox, we will take a more spiritual mode of doing so, and find ourselves at once inside.
The parents of Agnes represented noble lines of ancestry, and her family was not one of recent conversion, but had for several generations professed the faith. As in heathen families was cherished the memory of ancestors who had won a triumph, or held high offices in the state, so in this, and other Christian houses, was preserved with pious reverence and affectionate pride, the remembrance of those relations who had, in the last hundred and fifty years or more, borne the palm of martyrdom, or occupied the sublimer dignities of the Church. But, though ennobled thus, and with a constant stream of blood poured forth for Christ, accompanying the waving branches of the family-tree, the stem had never been hewn down, but had survived repeated storms. This may appear surprising; but when we reflect how many a soldier goes through a whole campaign of frequent actions and does not receive a wound; or how many a family remains untainted through a plague, we cannot be surprised if Providence watched over the well-being of the Church, by preserving in it, through old family successions, long unbroken chains of tradition, and so enabling the faithful to say: “Unless the Lord of Hosts had left us seed, we had been as Sodom, and we should have been like to Gomorrha.”[53]
All the honors and the hopes of this family centred now in one, whose name is already known to our readers, Agnes, the only child of that ancient house. Given to her parents as they had reached the very verge of hope that their line could be continued, she had been from infancy blest with such a sweetness of disposition, such a docility and intelligence of mind, and such simplicity and innocence of character, that she had grown up the common object of love, and almost of reverence, to the entire house, from her parents down to the lowest servant. Yet nothing seemed to spoil, or warp, the compact virtuousness of her nature; but her good qualities expanded, with a well-balanced adjustment, which at the early age in which we find her, had ripened into combined grace and wisdom. She shared all her parents’ virtuous thoughts, and cared as little for the world as they. She lived with them in a small portion of the mansion, which was fitted up with elegance, though not with luxury; and their establishment was adequate to all their wants. Here they received the few friends with whom they preserved familiar relations; though, as they did not entertain, nor go out, these were few. Fabiola was an occasional visitor, though Agnes preferred going to see her at her house; and she often expressed to her young friend her longing for the day, when, meeting with a suitable match, she would re-embellish and open all the splendid dwelling. For, notwithstanding the Voconian law “on the inheritance of women,”[54] now quite obsolete, Agnes had received, from collateral sources, large personal additions to the family property.
In general, of course, the heathen world, who visited, attributed appearances to avarice, and calculated what immense accumulations of wealth the miserly parents must be putting by; and concluded that all beyond the solid screen which shut up the second court, was left to fall into decay and ruin.
It was not so, however. The inner part of the house, consisting of a large court, and the garden, with a detached dining-hall, or triclinium, turned into a church, and the upper portion of the house, accessible from those parts, were devoted to the administration of that copious charity, which the Church carried on as a business of its life. It was under the care and direction of the deacon Reparatus, and his exorcist Secundus, officially appointed by the supreme Pontiff to take care of the sick, poor, and strangers, in one of the seven regions into which Pope Cajus, about five years before, had divided the city for this purpose; committing each region to one of the seven deacons of the Roman Church.
Rooms were set apart for lodging strangers who came from a distance, recommended by other churches; and a frugal table was provided for them. Upstairs were apartments for an hospital for the bed-ridden, the decrepit, and the sick, under the care of the deaconesses, and such of the faithful as loved to assist in this work of charity. It was here that the blind girl had her cell, though she refused to take her food, as we have seen, in the house. The tablinum, or muniment-room, which generally stood detached in the middle of the passage between the inner courts, served as the office and archives for transacting the business of this charitable establishment, and preserving all local documents, such as the acts of martyrs, procured or compiled by the one of the seven notaries kept for that purpose, by institution of St. Clement I., who was attached to that region.
A door of communication allowed the household to assist in these works of charity; and Agnes had been accustomed from childhood to run in and out, many times a day, and to pass hours there; always beaming, like an angel of light, consolation and joy on the suffering and distressed. This house, then, might be called the almonry of the region, or district, of charity and hospitality in which it was situated, and it was accessible for these purposes through the posticum or back door, situated in a narrow lane little frequented. No wonder that with such an establishment, the fortune of the inmates should find an easy application.
We heard Pancratius request Sebastian, to arrange for the distribution of his plate and jewels among the poor, without its being known to whom they belonged. He had not lost sight of the commission, and had fixed on the house of Agnes as the fittest for this purpose. On the morning which we have described the distribution had to take place; other regions had sent their poor, accompanied by their deacons; while Sebastian, Pancratius, and other persons of higher rank had come in through the front door, to assist in the division. Some of these had been seen to enter by Corvinus.
A GROUP of poor coming opportunely towards the door, enabled Corvinus to tack himself to them,—an admirable counterfeit, in all but the modesty of their deportment. He kept sufficiently close to them to hear that each of them, as he entered in, pronounced the words, “Deo gratias,” “Thanks be to God.” This was not merely a Christian, but a Catholic pass-word; for St. Augustine tells us that heretics ridiculed Catholics for using it, on the ground that it was not a salutation but rather a reply; but that Catholics employed it, because consecrated by pious usage. It is yet heard in Italy on similar occasions.
Corvinus pronounced the mystic words, and was allowed to pass. Following the others closely, and copying their manners and gestures, he found himself in the inner court of the house, which was already filled with the poor and infirm. The men were ranged on one side, the women on the other. Under the portico at the end were tables piled with costly plate, and near them was another covered with brilliant jewelry. Two silver and goldsmiths were weighing and valuing most conscientiously this property; and beside them was the money which they would give, to be distributed amongst the poor, in just proportion.
Corvinus eyed all this with a gluttonous heart. He would have given anything to get it all, and almost thought of making a dash at something, and running out. But he saw at once the folly or madness of such a course, and resolved to wait for a share, and in the meantime take note for Fulvius of all he saw. He soon, however, became aware of the awkwardness of his present position. While the poor were all mixed up together and moving about, he remained unnoticed. But he soon saw several young men of peculiarly gentle manners, but active, and evidently in authority, dressed in the garment known to him by the name of Dalmatic, from its Dalmatian origin; that is, having over the tunic, instead of the toga, a close-fitting shorter tunicle, with ample, but not over long or wide sleeves; the dress adopted and worn by the deacons, not only at their more solemn ministrations in church, but also when engaged in the discharge of their secondary duties about the sick and poor.
These officers went on marshalling the attendants, each evidently knowing those of his own district, and conducting them to a peculiar spot within the porticoes. But as no one recognized or claimed Corvinus for one of his poor, he was at length left alone in the middle of the court. Even his dull mind could feel the anomalous situation into which he had thrust himself. Here he was, the son of the prefect of the city, whose duty it was to punish such violators of domestic rights, an intruder into the innermost parts of a nobleman’s house, having entered by a cheat, dressed like a beggar, and associating himself with such people, of course for some sinister, or at least unlawful, purpose. He looked towards the door, meditating an escape; but he saw it guarded by an old man named Diogenes and his two stout sons, who could hardly restrain their hot blood at this insolence, though they only showed it by scowling looks, and repressive biting of their lips. He saw that he was a subject of consultation among the young deacons, who cast occasional glances towards him; he imagined that even the blind were staring at him, and the decrepit ready to wield their crutches like battle-axes against him. He had only one consolation; it was evident he was not known, and he hoped to frame some excuse for getting out of the scrape.
At length the Deacon Reparatus came up to him, and thus courteously accosted him:
“Friend, you probably do not belong to one of the regions invited here to-day. Where do you live?”
“In the region of the Alta Semita.”[55]
This answer gave the civil, not the ecclesiastical, division of Rome; still Reparatus went on: “The Alta Semita is in my region, yet I do not remember to have seen you.”
While he spoke these words, he was astonished to see the stranger turn deadly pale, and totter as if about to fall, while his eyes were fixed upon the door of communication with the dwelling-house. Reparatus looked in the same direction, and saw Pancratius, just entered, and gathering some hasty information from Secundus. Corvinus’s last hope was gone. He stood the next moment confronted with the youth (who asked Reparatus to retire), much in the same position as they had last met in, only that, instead of a circle round him of applauders and backers, he was here hemmed in on all sides by a multitude who evidently looked with preference upon his rival. Nor could Corvinus help observing the graceful development and manly bearing, which a few weeks had given his late school-mate. He expected a volley of keen reproach, and, perhaps, such chastisement as he would himself have inflicted in similar circumstances. What was his amazement when Pancratius thus addressed him in the mildest tone:
“Corvinus, are you really reduced to distress and lamed by some accident? Or how have you left your father’s house?”
“Not quite come to that yet, I hope,” replied the bully, encouraged to insolence by the gentle address, “though, no doubt, you would be heartily glad to see it.”
“By no means, I assure you; I hold you no grudge. If, therefore, you require relief, tell me; and though it is not right that you should be here, I can take you into a private chamber where you can receive it unknown.”
“Then I will tell you the truth: I came in here merely for a freak; and I should be glad if you could get me quietly out.”
“Corvinus,” said the youth, with some sternness, “this is a serious offence. What would your father say, if I desired these young men, who would instantly obey, to take you as you are, barefoot, clothed as a slave, counterfeiting a cripple, into the Forum before his tribunal, and publicly charge you with what every Roman would resent, forcing your way into the heart of a patrician’s house?”
“For the gods’ sakes, good Pancratius, do not inflict such frightful punishment.”
“You know, Corvinus, that your own father would be obliged to act towards you the part of Junius Brutus, or forfeit his office.”
“I entreat you by all that you love, by all that you hold sacred, not to dishonor me and mine so cruelly. My father and his house, not I, would be crushed and ruined for ever. I will go on my knees and beg your pardon for my former injuries, if you will only be merciful.”
“Hold, hold, Corvinus, I have told you that was long forgotten. But hear me now. Every one but the blind around you is a witness to this outrage. There will be a hundred evidences to prove it. If ever, then, you speak of this assembly, still more if you attempt to molest any one for it, we shall have it in our power to bring you to trial at your own father’s judgment-seat. Do you understand me, Corvinus?”
“I do, indeed,” replied the captive in a whining tone. “Never, as long as I live, will I breathe to mortal soul that I came into this dreadful place. I swear it by the—”
“Hush, hush! we want no such oaths here. Take my arm, and walk with me.” Then turning to the others, he continued: “I know this person; his coming here is quite a mistake.”
The spectators, who had taken the wretch’s supplicating gestures and tone for accompaniments to a tale of woe, and strong application for relief, joined in crying out, “Pancratius, you will not send him away fasting and unsuccored?”
“Leave that to me,” was the reply. The self-appointed porters gave way before Pancratius, who led Corvinus, still pretending to limp, into the street, and dismissed him, saying: “Corvinus, we are now quits; only, take care of your promise.”
Fulvius, as we have seen, went to try his fortune by the front door. He found it, according to Roman custom, unlocked; and, indeed, no one could have suspected the possibility of a stranger entering at such an hour. Instead of a porter, he found, guarding the door, only a simple-looking girl about twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in a peasant’s garment. No one else was near; and he thought it an excellent opportunity to verify the strong suspicion which had crossed his mind. Accordingly, he thus addressed the little portress:
“What is your name, child, and who are you?”
“I am,” she replied, “Emerentiana, the Lady Agnes’s foster-sister.”
“Are you a Christian?” he asked her sharply.
The poor little peasant opened her eyes in the amazement of ignorance, and replied: “No, sir.” It was impossible to resist the evidence of her simplicity; and Fulvius was satisfied that he was mistaken. The fact was, that she was the daughter of a peasant who had been Agnes’s nurse. The mother had just died, and her kind sister had sent for the orphan daughter, intending to have her instructed and baptized. She had only arrived a day or two before, and was yet totally ignorant of Christianity.
Fulvius stood embarrassed what to do next. Solitude made him feel as awkwardly situated, as a crowd was making Corvinus. He thought of retreating, but this would have destroyed all his hopes; he was going to advance, when he reflected that he might commit himself unpleasantly. At this critical juncture, whom should he see coming lightly across the court, but the youthful mistress of the house, all joy, all spring, all brightness and sunshine. As soon as she saw him, she stood, as if to receive his errand, and he approached with his blandest smile and most courtly gesture, and thus addressed her:
“I have anticipated the usual hour at which visitors come, and, I fear, must appear an intruder, Lady Agnes; but I was impatient to inscribe myself as an humble client of your noble house.”
“Our house,” she replied, smiling, “boasts of no clients, nor do we seek them; for we have no pretensions to influence or power.”
“Pardon me; with such a ruler, it possesses the highest of influences and the mightiest of powers, those which reign, without effort, over the heart as a most willing subject.”
Incapable of imagining that such words could allude to herself, she replied, with artless simplicity:
“Oh, how true are your words! the Lord of this house is indeed the sovereign over the affections of all within it.”
“But I,” interposed Fulvius, “allude to that softer and benigner dominion, which graceful charms alone can exercise on those who from near behold them.”
Agnes looked as one entranced; her eyes beheld a very different image before them from that of her wretched flatterer; and with an impassioned glance towards heaven, she exclaimed:
“Yes, He whose beauty sun and moon in their lofty firmament gaze on and admire, to Him is pledged my service and my love.”[56]
Fulvius was confounded and perplexed. The inspired look, the rapturous attitude, the music of the thrilling tones in which she uttered these words, their mysterious import, the strangeness of the whole scene, fastened him to the spot, and sealed his lips; till, feeling that he was losing the most favorable opportunity he could ever expect of opening his mind (affection it could not be called) to her, he boldly said, “It is of you I am speaking; and I entreat you to believe my expression of sincerest admiration of you, and of unbounded attachment to you.” As he uttered these words, he dropt on his knee, and attempted to take her hand; but the maiden bounded back with a shudder, and turned away her burning countenance.
Fulvius started in an instant to his feet; for he saw Sebastian, who was come to summon Agnes to the poor, impatient of her absence, striding forward towards him, with an air of indignation.
“Sebastian,” said Agnes to him, as he approached, “be not angry; this gentleman has probably entered here by some unintentional mistake, and no doubt will quietly retire.” Saying this, she withdrew.
Sebastian, with his calm but energetic manner, now addressed the intruder, who quailed beneath his look, “Fulvius, what do you here? what business has brought you?”
“I suppose,” answered he, regaining courage, “that having met the lady of the house at the same place with you, her noble cousin’s table, I have a right to wait upon her, in common with other voluntary clients.”
“But not at so unreasonable an hour as this, I presume?”
“The hour that is not unreasonable for a young officer,” retorted Fulvius insolently, “is not, I trust, so for a civilian.”
Sebastian had to use all his power of self-control to check his indignation, as he replied:
“Fulvius, be not rash in what you say; but remember that two persons may be on a very different footing in a house. Yet not even the longest familiarity, still less a one dinner’s acquaintance, can authorize or justify the audacity of your bearing towards the young mistress of this house, a few moments ago.”
“Oh, you are jealous, I suppose, brave captain!” replied Fulvius, with his most refined sarcastic tone. “Report says that you are the acceptable, if not accepted, candidate for Fabiola’s hand. She is now in the country; and, no doubt, you wish to make sure for yourself of the fortune of one or the other of Rome’s richest heiresses. There is nothing like having two strings to one’s bow.”
This coarse and bitter sarcasm wounded the noble officer’s best feelings to the quick; and had he not long before disciplined himself to Christian meekness, his blood would have proved too powerful for his reason.
“It is not good for either of us, Fulvius, that you remain longer here. The courteous dismissal of the noble lady whom you have insulted has not sufficed; I must be the ruder executor of her command.” Saying this, he took the unbidden guest’s arm in his powerful grasp, and conducted him to the door. When he had put him outside, still holding him fast, he added: “Go now, Fulvius, in peace; and remember that you have this day made yourself amenable to the laws of the state by this unworthy conduct. I will spare you, if you know how to keep your own counsel; but it is well that you should know, that I am acquainted with your occupation in Rome; and that I hold this morning’s insolence over your head, as a security that you will follow it discreetly. Now, again I say, go in peace.”
But he had no sooner let go his grasp, than he felt himself seized from behind by an unseen, but evidently an athletic, assailant. It was Eurotas, from whom Fulvius durst conceal nothing, and to whom he had confided the intended interview with Corvinus, that had followed and watched him. From the black slave he had before learnt the mean and coarse character of this client of her magical arts; and he feared some trap. When he saw the seeming struggle at the door, he ran stealthily behind Sebastian, who, he fancied, must be his pupil’s new ally, and pounced upon him with a bear’s rude assault. But he had no common rival to deal with. He attempted in vain, though now helped by Fulvius, to throw the soldier heavily down; till, despairing of success in this way, he detached from his girdle a small but deadly weapon, a steel mace of finished Syrian make, and was raising it over the back of Sebastian’s head, when he felt it wrenched in a trice from his hand, and himself twirled two or three times round, in an iron gripe, and flung flat in the middle of the street.
“I am afraid you have hurt the poor fellow, Quadratus,” said Sebastian to his centurion, who was coming up at that moment to join his fellow-Christians, and was of most Herculean make and strength.
“He well deserves it, tribune, for his cowardly assault,” replied the other, as they re-entered the house.
The two foreigners, crest-fallen, slunk away from the scene of their defeat; and as they turned the corner, caught a glimpse of Corvinus, no longer limping, but running as fast as his legs would carry him, from his discomfiture at the back-door. However often they may have met afterwards, neither ever alluded to their feats of that morning. Each knew that the other had incurred only failure and shame; and they came both to the conclusion, that there was one fold at least in Rome, which either fox or wolf would assail in vain.