Читать книгу No. XIII; or, The Story of the Lost Vestal - Marshall Emma - Страница 6

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Although Casca and Hyacintha were their parents’ only children, there were no very intimate relations existing between them.

Casca was almost entirely at the schools, where he was preparing for active service, and receiving such training as was deemed needful for a young Roman. His father was disappointed that his only boy should be pale and delicate, that his arms should not be muscular, and that he was always at fault in any game, or trial of strength. Severus did his best to harden his only son, and it was with that idea that he had taken him with him that morning to see the execution of Alban.

Severus was in attendance on the Governor, and, shrinking and frightened, the boy stood by his father’s side, hiding his face in his short toga, when the martyr was scourged till the ground was moistened with his blood. Judge and Governor alike were pitiless, and, believing they were performing an act of service to their gods by crushing out the confessors of the Christian faith in Verulam, they were determined to make the whole scene as impressive as possible.

Alban was no common man: it was necessary that his execution should be conducted in no ordinary fashion.

He had lived in one of the finest villas in the city, he was a learned scholar, and had unquestioned taste in the fine arts which the Romans were introducing into Britain.

Although born at Verulam, Alban had, in his youth, travelled to Rome, and when he returned had been looked upon with veneration and respect. Although a Pagan, and scrupulous in his attendance on all high ceremonies in the temple of the gods, Alban had always been charitable and compassionate, and the poor found in him a friend.

Thus, full of kindness, when the Emperor’s edict published against the Christians at Rome and in all Roman provinces was issued, Alban opened his house to a man who was fleeing from his persecutors, and a minister of the religion of Christ. This was the turning-point of Alban’s life; this was the first step to the martyrdom which he had suffered gladly on this summer day for the faith of Christ crucified.

It is hard for us to realise, or grasp as facts, the terrible persecutions of those distant times.

Perhaps nothing is a stronger testimony to the Christian faith than that the more it was attacked, and the fiercer the persecution of its disciples, the more it grew and strengthened.

It has been so in all times; it will be so in all future ages, “for the Lord remaineth a King for ever.”

Hyacintha went to find her brother. The child’s head was filled with a strange yearning curiosity to know all particulars of what had passed.

She went up the marble staircase once more, and again looked out from the balcony over the city and the country.

The western sky was still aglow, and the outline of the hill was marked against it in purple lines. The river caught a reflection from a crescent moon which hung above it, and rippled in the silvery light.

The country beyond the city was asleep, but the city, which had been so quiet in the morning, was now astir. The buzz and murmur of voices rose on the still air, and slaves were seen conducting Roman citizens of note to their homes. Torches were lighted, silver lamps burning in the “Halls,” while strains of music and the voices of singing girls were borne on the breath of the evening air.

But Hyacintha did not stay on the balcony long; she turned from it to a room on the opposite side of the square opening, where she knew she should find her brother.

She went softly round to the doorway, and gently clapped her hands.

“Enter!” was said in a low voice; “is that you, Claudius?”

“No, Casca, it is only Hyacintha;” and Hyacintha pushed back the curtain and stood half shyly by her brother’s side.

He had thrown himself down on a couch, his hands folded behind his head, and his whole attitude one of extreme weariness.

“What do you want, Hyacintha?”

“I want news,” she replied; “tell me what you have seen to-day. Do tell me all the truth about the death of the evil man.”

Casca sprang up.

“Hush! Do not speak of that you know not, child. Evil, forsooth! he was good, not evil.”

“That is what I want to be sure of. Be kind, brother, be kind, and tell me the story.”

But Casca sank back again upon his cushion, and said—

“Not to-night. I shall never sleep if I rehearse it. I could not go over it again. Who are below?” he asked, as the sounds of music and singing came from the atrium.

“A few guests, some that my father brought home; no ladies but my mother.”

“Is not Junia there, the sister of Claudius?”

“No, unless she has arrived since I left the banqueting-hall. I would not stay, though father prayed me to sing to the lute. I could not stay, because I wanted to find thee.”

“Dear little sister,” Casca said, “I would not be rough to thee.”

“Thou art never rough, brother,” was the answer, “and I love thee dearly. I only wish I knew more of thy secrets. May I stay with thee?”

“Yes, draw that stool to the window, and pull the curtain aside. I like to see the sky and the stars.”

Hyacintha obeyed, and waited for what her brother would say next; he was contemplating the graceful outline of her head against the sky, as, with her elbow on the deep stone ledge of the window, her cheek resting upon her hand, she made a study any artist might long to put on canvas. Hyacintha waited patiently for her brother to speak, and at last he broke the silence, though not in the way she expected.

“I am a bitter disappointment to our father, Hyacintha, a poor, puny weakling like me; there are times when I long for death, to be free of this life. It may be that the gods would be merciful to me and give me the strength hereafter I lack here. But to-day, when I saw death, I shuddered and swooned. I am a wretched coward, with no power to live, and no power to die.”

Hyacintha’s eyes filled with tears. What comfort had a heathen to offer in all these exigencies of life and death? What could Hyacintha say to throw any light or hope over her brother’s darkness? Though but a child, she had heard much, from the grown-up people with whom she associated, of the world, and the pleasures of dance and song, and the games and all the luxuries and refinements of life, which were supposed to be a cure for heart-aches and trials. But Ebba had talked of feeding the hungry, nursing the sick, and clothing the naked, as a way to be happy. She said this man, Alban, had done these things, and that there was always a light on his face which was not shed there by any of the pleasures in which others indulged. Poor Hyacintha’s mind was all confused and bewildered; she almost wished she could be gay and careless like Junia, whose voice, singing a familiar song, now sounded from the atrium.

She began dimly to grasp the fact that something was wanted to make life different from the life her mother led, and many ladies, who frequented the atrium and lay on the luxurious couches there, and toyed with their bracelets and ornaments.

“I will pray my father,” Hyacintha thought “that I may go to Rome, and be trained for a priestess, in the temple of Vesta. Yes, I will pray him that I may do this, then I shall be happier far, for it will be doing something grand and noble.”

Her meditations were a second time broken in upon by her brother’s voice.

“Hark! I think I hear Claudius’s footstep. Yes; run, Hyacintha, and admit him.”

But Claudius did not wait to be admitted. He came springing in with a light step, and a cheery voice, a voice that had laughter in it, like the ripple of a brook hidden amongst moss and stones.

“So, here you are, hiding and moping! Wherefore such dolorous looks, young Casca? I am in the highest spirits. What think you? I am chosen for the race to-morrow, and I will win, too. Your pardon, fair Hyacintha. I did not perceive you in the shadow of the curtain. What ails you, Casca?”

“Weariness of myself and life, that is all,” the boy said; “you are in its full zest and enjoyment, while I——”

“Pish! what folly! The best time is coming. Why, as soon as you wear the toga virilis you will feel the man. Were you on the hill to-day?”

“Yes, I was forced to be there by my father.”

“Forced! Well, it was a fine spectacle; though to say the truth, there’s many a worse fellow than Alban about the city. Those sly Christians are doing secretly here in Verulam what Alban did openly, there’s the difference. They may be unearthed any day, and the sooner the better.”

“I do not know the whole story,” Hyacintha said. “I pray you, Claudius, tell it to me. If I ask my father he puts me off; and my mother says it is only that some wicked men should be got rid of. And Ebba is full of mystery, and sighs and mutters, but will not speak.”

“I will speak, if so it pleases you, little Hyacintha,” said Claudius, “and tell what there is to be told, always providing that I agree with your lady mother, the sooner the reptiles are crushed out the better.”

“You will find a draught in yonder cup,” Casca said, raising himself lazily on one arm; “that will refresh you before you begin.” Claudius soon trained the contents of the cup, and then replenished it from a flagon which stood by it.

“Aye, that is like nectar,” he said. Then he threw his large muscular limbs upon some cushions piled up in a corner near the window, where Hyacintha sat, her figure a little bent forward, and her eyes fastened upon the boy, as he began his tale.

“Only a few months ago, Alban was one of the most devoted worshippers in the temple of Apollo. He spent large sums on sacrifices, and if he poured out a libation, it was of the purest wine. There was no stint with him, as you know, or ought to know. A man who professed to teach and preach this new superstition was fleeing from his pursuers. Walking along Watling Street, Alban, noticing his breathless condition, inquired what ailed him. He said the Governor’s minions were upon him. Alban, struck with the man’s agony, hastily conducted him to his house, and harboured him there in secret.

“It is said that the miserable fugitive prayed night and day to his God, asking for help, and also that Alban should be turned from the old faith to believe these lies.”

“Are you—is any one—sure they are lies?” Casca asked.

“Look you, Casca,” said Claudius, “it is not for any one here to ask that question. Suffice it, that they are lies, base lies.”

Casca sighed heavily, and Claudius continued—

“The fugitive, whose name was Amphibalus, at last succeeded in his base designs. Alban, whom every one respected and honoured here, professed himself a Christian, and then the scene changed. So well had Alban hidden this fellow, that it was not for many days that suspicion was directed to his house. When at least it was searched, he, the stranger, had fled. Alban had give him one of his best robes, and wearing that, he escaped suspicion, and passed through the gates. But Alban himself, clothed in the Caracalla, which is the robe the fellow wore, was now under suspicion. ‘You will suffer in his stead, unless you at once sacrifice to the images of the gods,’ the judge said.”

“To tell the truth,” said Claudius, “there was something noble in the fellow, for no tortures could make him give in. Hush! what is that?”

A low voice was heard to say—

“Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

“It is Ebba’s voice,” Hyacintha exclaimed, and running towards the door, she found Ebba standing there.

“It is Ebba,” Hyacintha repeated. “Permit her to enter and hear the story to the end.” Casca nodded his head by way of assent, and Ebba, leaning against the wall over which a curtain hung, listened intently while Claudius finished his story.

“No tortures,” he continued, “would make the fellow give in. The scourge ploughed his back pretty well. He had thirty-nine stripes, and we expected to see him fall down dead.”

“Were you in the hall?” Casca exclaimed.

“Yes, I have seen the whole play played out,” the boy said carelessly. “The grand climax was to-day, when the executioner threw himself at Alban’s feet, and begged to die with him, or for him. And then there was an uproar indeed. A great multitude pressed round Alban, who was praying and calling upon his God, and crying to Jesus to have mercy, and turn the hearts of the people to himself.

“The governor and judge, however, made short work. A new executioner, one of the soldiers, was easily found, and it was not long before the heads of both Alban and Heraclius were rolling on the turf, and their blood sprinkled on the flowers. But they say in the city to-night that there are many who are full of this superstition, and that there will be many more. Thank the gods I am not one!”

Ebba, who had been standing motionless by the door, murmured something, which was not distinctly heard, and then vanished.

“I believe Ebba is one of them,” Casca said. “If it is so, it will bring us all into trouble, and my father ought to know.”

“Well, a truce to the poor wretches. Now,” said Claudius, “let us talk of other things. Ah! here is Ebba with the light. She will not leave us in darkness.”

Ebba did not speak, but lighted the two hanging lamps, which cast a soft radiance on the room, and on those who were in it. The beautiful childlike face of Hyacintha was brought out from the shadows, and large tears were seen upon her cheeks.

“Do not tell father, dear brother,” she said, “about Ebba. I pray you, do not. It might end in her death. And, oh!” exclaimed Hyacintha passionately, “I do dread death, the darkness whither we must go, before we reach the Elysian fields.”

“Do not fret, little sister. You are too grave for your tender years; come, sing to me and Claudius the good-night song you refused to sing to the guests below.”

“Ah! sing to us, and then I must seek for my sister, and conduct her home. The guests are leaving the hall, some of them are hilarious enough.”

As he spoke, loud laughter ascended from the atrium, and the torches which the attendants and slaves lifted flashed through the street. There was not much need of their light this evening. The days of our northern climate were at their longest, and almost before daylight faded from the west, streaks of dawn brightened the east.

The people of Verulam had gone through a tiring day, and the city was wrapt earlier than usual in repose.

It was just between midnight and the first hour of the coming day that a figure, veiled closely, glided across the square, which lay on one side of the villa Severus, and following the course of the river crossed it towards the hill, where the great spectacle of the day before had been witnessed by so many thousands. These were for the most part sleeping peacefully in Verulam, but some were yet watching on the spot where the martyrs had shed their blood.

One of them was the priest whose life Alban had saved at the expense of his own, and as the dark-veiled figure crept up the hill-side he advanced to meet it.

“Is it thou, my daughter, Ebba, the slave of the Roman house?”

“Yes, father, and I would fain follow thee. I am not afraid now. I will confess Christ before men. If I am to die, He will be with me, and I cannot—I dare not—tarry any longer. Baptise me; I am ready.”

“Art thou sure thou art in truth ready to leave all for Christ, to dare to confess thy faith?”

The girl’s lips faltered, and she said—

“I would fain remain with my mistress if it were possible. I love her little daughter so well.”

“Ah! I see, thou art not ready to leave all for Christ. There must be no halting between two opinions. My daughter, he who was done to a cruel death on this spot to-day, and whose blessed body we have buried here in silence and darkness, did not halt. Never can I forget the decision he showed. In the very hour that he believed, he confessed, and gave up all. Think what a renunciation it was: his fine house, whither the noblest and the most learned scholars amongst the Romans resorted; the honour paid him when he went to the temple to sacrifice to the false gods; the respect also felt for his gifts and talents. Yet he never faltered, and when the great trial-hour came he sent me forth in his robe, with a face as glad as if, when he arrayed himself in my Caracalla,[A] he had donned his wedding garment.

“That robe was the signal for his death. He did not fear to die for Christ, and he stood before the Governor, so those tell me who saw him, with a face shining like that of an angel. I have been in hiding near by, and have remained under cover of the darkness, to make known to the faithful whither I am gone, that they may perchance follow me, and in the fastnesses of Wales, we may add daily to our number such as shall be saved. Say, Ebba, wilt thou follow? See, there are signs of dawn in the east. I may not tarry. That group yonder seen in dark, dim, outline, is composed of those who are following me to a meeting-place I have indicated. Wilt thou join thyself to them?”

The poor British slave bowed her head, and clasping her hands, said, “I will follow thee.”

Then the priest led her to a spring, and baptised the heathen Ebba by the name “Anna.”

The morning star was shining brightly, and the summer dawn breaking over the hills, when, by the grave of the two martyrs, the cross was signed upon the forehead of the British slave.

The ceremony was performed in haste, and then the little band dispersed, to escape observation, some in one direction, some in another, but all to meet in a thick wood, near a place called Radburn, three miles distant from the city of Verulam.

Ebba, or Anna, as we must now call her, was committed to the care of a recent convert, named Agatha, who had concealed a little band of Christians in her house in the city, and who was an aunt to the soldier who had thrown away his sword and died rather than execute the savage commands of the Governor and Judge. There was no time for many words. Agatha kissed Anna on the forehead and said—

“I welcome thee, my daughter, to the inheritance of the saints, be it death or be it life.” And then in silence the two women pursued their way through the flower-scented meadow-land, and reached the shelter of the tangled wood at Radburn before the sun rose.

A cave in this wood, the mouth of which was covered with brushwood, was the appointed meeting-place. Here Amphibalus the priest had been hiding since Alban had permitted him to escape. And here, worn out with the events of the previous day, on beds made of dry leaves and heather, Anna lay down with her new friend to rest.

The cave was of some extent, and had several divisions. A fissure in the rock above lighted the inner part, which was allotted to the women. Even in summer it was a cold habitation, and only when the sun was high in the heavens could any warmth and cheerfulness penetrate it. As Anna lay gazing up into the roof, she could see the blue sky far above her through the interlacing boughs of brambles, and low-growing maples which grew over the opening.

The thrushes were singing their morning song, and there was innumerable chirping of newly-fledged birds, while the lowing of distant cattle and the nearer humming of bees, kept up a continuous low murmur.

Poor Anna could not sleep; she was thinking over the life in the Roman villa, of all the little offices it would soon be time to perform for her mistress and for Hyacintha. She knew full well that she would be missed before long, and perhaps pursued and found. That punishment, if not death, was the doom of the escaped slave, she knew well. The band, the badge of that slavery, was still on her arm, and could only be taken off by the hand of a smith. It would betray her as the runaway slave of the noble Severus, though the cross, the sign of her new faith, was invisible to all eyes but the angels.

Anna’s was not a strong, heroic soul; she was, as she had told her little mistress, a coward. “Yet He giveth strength to the weak” was a promise to be fulfilled in her case, as in that of the thousands who have learned to “count all things but loss for the love of Christ.”

Agatha was of a very different nature. She was sleeping as soundly and quietly as a child, while her young companion tossed and turned with wide-open eyes and restless limbs till noonday was near. The outer caves were getting full, and the whispers of the fugitives awoke Agatha.

“Have you slept, my daughter?” she said.

“Nay, I cannot sleep. I do not feel any peace, though I would not go back if I could.” Then she added hastily, and in a weak, low voice, “I am hungry.”

Agatha smiled.

“Ah!” she said, “hunger and weariness are a part of the cross we must bear after Christ; but thou art young, my child, and I will see whether I can find thee some food. We have had but scant measure here.”

Agatha disappeared within the outer cave, and presently returned, beckoning Anna to follow her.

Awe-struck, the girl obeyed, and there, in the outer cave, a little congregation was gathered round Amphibalus, who was kneeling at a rude table formed by a fragment of rock which blocked up the entrance to the cavern.

At a sign from Agatha, Anna knelt with the rest, and then Amphibalus rising, turned to the people, and bade them draw near and receive the sign of the love of the Crucified One, the bread and the wine which He had commanded. In a few short words, he rehearsed the story of the Cross to those poor trembling converts who at any moment might be discovered and dragged off to a cruel death. He told of the life which now is, and that hope of the life to come, as the blessed experience of the Christian, and his anchor. For life here without Him is darkness, and life there without Him is a dread void. What did stripes and persecution weigh in the balance, when the future exceeding glory and joy were on the other side! Then he went on to speak of Alban, and the soldier who died with him, rather than live without him, and to bid all those present to encourage each other in steadfastness and courage.

The Communion was then celebrated; the water from a neighbouring spring, being coloured with wine which Amphibalus had preserved in a small leathern flask in a secret pocket of his robe, filled the rude cup which was offered to the little band, and small fragments of wheaten bread were eaten.

The command thus obeyed in all simplicity of faith brought its blessing with it. Surely the strengthening and refreshing of these fugitives were a great reality, and poor Anna, rising from her knees with a smile on her lips, whispered—

“I will feed on Thee in my heart, O Saviour, and I shall know neither hunger nor thirst.”

There was need of faith, for the bodies of the little band were nearly exhausted before food came. It was not till darkness covered the face of the country that a messenger was sent to Radburn to buy bread. He returned about midnight, with loaves concealed in his clothes, and a pewter flagon or cup, that could be filled from the spring, and was handed round.

When the bread was divided every one of the fainting converts received the right share, and then Amphibalus prayed for a blessing, and that this food might support the bodies of those who partook of it till more bountiful provision was vouchsafed.

A consultation was held as to the future, and it was decided that the small band should remain in hiding in the cave to await the coming in of any more fugitives from the city.

Agatha, who was a strong and active woman, busied herself in making the three caves more habitable, by heaping up the heather and dried leaves for beds, and plaiting some of it into small baskets, which might be useful for exchanging for food whenever there was any obtainable in their wanderings.

Wales was the probable destination of the little community, where it was hoped they might find employment as keepers of pigs and cattle, and in the fastnesses of that district make converts from the scanty population, and by degrees found a church there.

Agatha’s cheerful, bright spirit infected Anna, and she began to take heart, and as the Gospel story was told her by her friend her soul expanded under its influence, and she only longed that her dear little mistress could have the same good news, and bitterly repented that through fear and terror of the consequences she had kept silence, and that she had not answered many earnest questions that the child had asked her.

It was too late now.