Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Índice da Obra Atual Anterior: The Children of the Kingdom Seguinte: Cædmon
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SYMPHORIAN
A STORY OF THE SECOND CENTURY
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CHAPTER I
“For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.” – PHIL. I, 21
MARCUS AURELIUS, emperor of Rome between the years 161-180, has been made known to us by historians as a mall of noble character, refined sentiment, and exalted intellect, – a true lover of philosophy. But his conduct towards his Christian subjects can never be excused. He certainly sanctioned, even if he did not command, the perpetration of many gross cruelties upon them, and during his reign, one of the most violent persecutions ever known raged against Christianity, in the Roman dominions of Gaul.
The incident related in these pages, however little claim it may otherwise deserve to have on the reader’s attention, yet bears with it this one recommendation, – it is perfectly true. And so, if after hearing that recommendation, my friend the reader may wish to know what I have to tell him, I must beg him to transport himself back in imagination to the year 179 A.D. and fancy himself walking with me through the streets of Boxum, (now Autun,) in Gaul.
It is a beautiful morning in the month of August, and though the hour is yet early, the roads are all astir with people. Let us stand awhile beneath the portico of this house, and watch the busy throng of citizens hurrying up and down the pavement on their various errands. See, here comes the elegant chariot of Heraclus, the governor or consul of the province. He is hurrying on, probably to attend some court of justice, for during his residence in Boxum he often acts the magistrate as well as the governor. We have no time to look at him, for he drives with all the speed that the importance of his duties and position can urge, and his horses are scarcely less impatient than their master.
But who are these two young men who are now approaching us, so earnestly engaged in conversation? If we may judge by the disparity of their dress and bearing, they should be of unequal rank, and it is strange to see them thus walking together. The elder of the two, – he with the
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bright sunny curls and blue eyes, is Symphorian, a youth of twenty, the only son of the Decurion Faustus, one of the principal men of the town, and formerly its Duumvir, or prefect. His poorer companion is a fatherless boy of sixteen, named Victor, of whom Symphorian, in his tender-heartedness has made a protégé. Let us follow them if you will, reader, and listen to their conversation.
“Indeed, my dear friend,” says Symphorian’s kindly voice, “I am very sorry to hear such ill news. But don’t be downhearted, my boy, come home with me now, and you shall have a jar of wine to carry to your mother. And look you, this afternoon I will run round myself to your house, and see how she fares, and what is most needful for her. You know, Victor,” he adds with a bright smile, “everybody says I am a capital physician, and the sick seem always the better for my visits.”
“It is your goodness of heart, my kind Symphorian, that makes you beloved everywhere,” answers the boy, looking up in his companion’s face with grateful eyes; “there is no one, however poor or sick, but is cheerful and happy in your presence. God bless you for it, – my mother and I owe alive have to you!”
“Hush, hush, my dear boy, you must not flatter me so, or I shall grow vain and conceited, and then you see you will run the risk of spoiling the fine character you admire what a pity that would be, – wouldn’t it, Victor?”
“You are laughing at me, Symphorian, as you always do, when I try to thank you for your goodness to us. But you know how dearly I love you for it, and how very unlike flattery is my praise of you!”
“That I do indeed, dear Victor! God bless you for your love, – it makes me very happy. But look, – in the earnestness of our talking, we had well-nigh passed my father’s house. Come in, – I see him watching for me.”
As Symphorian speaks, the two youths enter beneath the white marble portico of a house whose stately structure and adornings bespeak the wealth and opulence of its owner. That individual, in the person of a tall handsome man, now makes his appearance in the atrium, or inner court of the building. We notice at first sight a remarkable air of stateliness and military dignity in his bearing, but this altogether disappears when he perceives Symphorian, and the natural sternness of his countenance gives place to a smile of paternal pride and fondness, as the young man quitting his friend s side, runs forward to meet his father.
“Father!” he cries breathlessly, “I have brought Victor home with me, his mother is ill, and I have promised to give him some vine for her. Where is my mother?”
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“In here, my dear boy. Victor, you had better follow him. I am sorry to hear of your mother’s illness, but if we can do anything for her, do not hesitate to ask it.” And with a kindly smile Faustus passes on, and Symphorian and his protégé enter the apartment where Emilia, the mother of the former, is sitting at her embroidery-frame.
“Dearest mother,” says Symphorian, running impetuously up to her, and speaking with a kiss, “here is Victor! His mother is ill, and I told him, if he would come home with me, you would give him a flask of wine to take her.”
“Willingly, my dear son,” she answers; “call Irene hither, and bid her fetch you some, Victor, my boy, while he is gone, come, sit down on this sofa and let me hear about your mother. Is she very ill?”
“Not so ill, dear lady, but that by care and God’s blessing, I hope soon to see her well again. The tumults and riot in the town of late, have sorely alarmed and terrified her. She loves me dearly, you know, and her fears for me, lest during my absence from her at my work, I should f all into the hands of the mob, or some evil befall me on account of my faith – have obliged me for these last two days to leave my labour, and remain at home with her. Three days since, the people set fire to five houses in our street, because they had heard that Christians lodged there; and several of the faithful died in the flames; others were murdered as they attempted to escape. We heard the hootings and yells of the crowd, and the crash of the burning houses every minute. I would fain have gone to see if I could not save some of the victims, but my poor sick mother clung to me in an agony of terror, and implored me to stay, trembling all the time so violently, that I dared not leave her alone.
“Then again, the night before last, a Christian traveller was struck down, almost at our door, by some cowardly soldiers, and they had well-nigh made an end of him, but by good luck, a pious woman took him into her house, and tended him, and I hear he is in a fair way to recover. But all these troubles, dear lady, distress my poor mother sadly, and she is full of apprehension, that I may be the next victim.”
“I hope not, my dear boy,” answers Emilia, with a deep sigh; “but these things, you know, are not at man’s disposal. God grant you may yet be spared a long time to brighten and cheer her old age; but if not, Victor, remember all things work together for the good of those who love Christ. But here comes Symphorian with the wine. How will you carry it? Ah, wrap it up so in your mantle. Now, good-bye, my child. God bless you, and make your mother well again!”
“Good-bye, Victor,” cries Symphorian, as the boy hugging
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his treasure up closely to his bosom turns to depart, “I will not fail to go this afternoon and see you. No thanks, – we have had enough already.”
“So, Symphorian,” says his mother, as the former having divested himself of his cap and cloak, re-enters the apartment and seats himself at her feet, – “you are off again this afternoon! You do well, it is thus you have become a sunbeam in everybody’s house’!” As she speaks, resting her hand upon the young man’s golden hair, and gazing lovingly into the depths of his upturned eyes, her husband stands beside her.
“Ay, ay, Emilia,” he says, “God is very gracious to us in giving us such a son. I remember well, how the good priest Benignus, long since gone to his rest, when he had baptized you, Symphorian, gave you back into your mother’s arms with these words, – ‘My children, this boy will be more of an honour to your house, than now you wot of.’ He lingers on the words as if they were sweet music to him, and Symphorian lifting his eyes to his father’s says, – “They murdered him, – that holy priest, – did they not, father?”
“Yes, my son, he died a martyr at Alesia, (1) but not before lie had borne a noble testimony to the faith of Christ. Your aunt, – my sister Leonilla, – carried him to his grave. You recollect, Emilia, how on the day we parted from the good priest, when he went at my desire to Andematunum (2) to baptize Leonilla’s three grandsons, as he stood with us on the threshold, he laid his hand in mine and said, ‘Son Faustus, farewell; I thank you for your hospitality. I part from you as a wanderer and pilgrim, – you yourself are no more. When next I salute you, it will be as a fellow-citizen.’ How prophetic the old, man’s words were! I did not think then, that I looked on his face for the last time! Ah, he is now with the holy bishop Polycarp, whose disciple he was, and of whom I have often heard him speak. Nobly indeed he followed in his master’s footsteps, and nobly, Like him, he drank the bitter cup of martyrdom! And now he is gone to join that master in the rest of the blessed in Paradise, until the last great day shall call them to receive at the hands of their common Lord, the white robe of righteousness, and the golden crown of victory, which shall be given to them who are slain for the witness of Jesus.”
“Ah, dearest father!” cries Symphorian, the tears glistening in his earnest eyes, “would that I too, might be one of that glorious company! Do you not remember last year when you took me with you to Sidolancum (3) to attend the burial ‘of the martyred priest Andochus, and the deacon
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Thyrsian, how peaceful and calm they looked in their death-sleep, though they had died in torture? Ever since that day I have been longing to be like them.”
Faustus gazes long into his son’s face as Symphorian ceases speaking. What are his thoughts? Is he repeating to himself the prophetic words of the priest Benignus, with a new presentiment as to their meaning, – “This thy son shall be an honour to thine house.” Perhaps it is so. He lays his hand tremblingly on Symphorian’s shoulder: “My boy,” he says, and his voice falters as he speaks, “pray God it be not yet I could not bear to lose you, my son, my only son!”
NOTES
(332:1) Dijon.
(332:2) Langres.
(332:3) Saulien.
CHAPTER II
“In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer;
I have overcome the world.” – S. JOHN XVI, 33.
THE red autumnal sun is sinking fast behind the chain of hills on the western side of Boxum, and a rich flood of mellow light streams down into the town below, and kindles like flame upon the marble tops of its many colonnades and basilicas, until they glow beneath the ruddy gleam like molten gold.
The business of the day is over now, and there are scarcely any people to be seen in the streets, except perhaps a few idlers, who, with no particular object in view, have chosen the last few hours before sunset to loiter away their time in a leisurely stroll through the town.
But see; here comes one at least, whose quick lively step and animated countenance proclaim at once that he is no idler. It is Symphorian, returning from his charitable mission to Victor’s widowed mother, and singing blithely to himself as he hastens along; listen, we can catch the words of his song: –
“Adeste, cantate Domino canticum novum, cantate Domino totus orbis terrarum!
Omnes enim cæterarum nationum dii deastri sunt; at Jova cœlorum conditor est.
Jova mea potentia atque cantus, mihi saluti fuit.
Ad Te Domine, animam meu in attollo, Tibi, mi Deus, confido, effice ne frustrer, ne mihi insultent hostes mei.
In Te Domine confido; non metuo, ne quid mihi faciant homines!”
Ah, what a heavenly glow of light illumined his face just then! It was the gleam of the setting sun streaming down upon him between the carved pillars of the marble colonnade. It has faded now, for Symphorian has turned the corner of
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the street, and a high dead wall interposes itself between him and the sunlight Hark! what is that sound that makes him pause so suddenly, and sends the hot blood rushing up like fire into his forehead?
It is a sound like the surging of a great multitude, – the trampling of many feet, – the murmur of many voices. He stands a moment and listens, and then drawing his mantle closely around him, he hastens onward repeating to himself, as though the words inspired him with fresh courage, – “In Te, Domine, speravi, – I will not fear what man doeth unto me!”
They are coming nearer now; he can see lights gleaming at the other end of the street, and a dense crowd approaching him. There is the terrible shout again, that so startled him before; he can hear it more distinctly now: – “Hall to the great goddess! the Magna Mater, – hall to the mother of the gods!”
Onward they come, nearer and nearer, with wild yells and cries, and the noise of drums and cymbals mingling in the tumult. The red glare of a hundred torches throws a lurid blaze of light down the street, and reveals a wild disorderly throng of people, surrounding with frantic gestures and dances a number of men habited in the garb of heathen priests, and bearing aloft the colossal statue of a majestic woman, crowned with a circlet of towers, and holding a golden disk or orb in her right hand. It is the procession of the goddess Cybele, more commonly known among the Romans by the name of the Magna-Mater, or Great Mother.
Already some of the foremost stragglers of the crowd have come up with Symphorian, and the young man well knows that if they espy him, he will be pressed to join in their impious carnival. Unwilling therefore to expose himself to danger by any unnecessary temerity, he steps hastily aside into a recess of the wall behind him, I n the hope that he may remain there, unperceived, until the procession shall have passed by. But he has scarce waited a moment before his anticipations of security are suddenly disappointed by a loud exclamation close beside him: “Why, Marcellus, whom have we here, lurking like a shadow behind this broken pillar? Out, youngster! and cry with us, ‘Hall to the great goddess, the Magna Mater!’ ”
The heavy hand of the speaker is laid roughly upon Symphorian’s shoulder, and the youth presently finds himself in the centre of a group of coarse-looking men, whose strange disorderly apparel, and wild unearthly countenances, give them more of the appearance of savage revellers, than of religious devotees.
“What, silent? dumb? Prithee, find us a tongue presently,
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young fellow, and tell us what thou dost, hiding thyself away like an owl in the darkness!”
“Nay, leave him alone, Maximan,” says another kindlier voice behind him, “you handle him too roughly. I’ll answer for it he’s an honest townsman, and is only waiting to join in the procession; is it not so, my boy?”
Symphorian throws a hasty glance at the motley group that has gathered round him, and then at the fast-approaching multitude. “Let me go, I pray you, townsmen,” he answers, “for I cannot join in your procession tonight. I am in haste to return home, before sunsetting, and I must be gone.”
“Not so fast, young fellow, if it please you,” retorts the first speaker, darting forward and thrusting himself in Symphorian’s path; “we shan’t let you off so easily, I promise you! No one meets us tonight, who does not join us; that’s the rule, isn’t it, Marcellus? Head of Jupiter! we’ll take no excuses!”
“Pooh, pooh! Maximan, let him go! How perverse you are! What can it matter to us if one sorry stripling refuses to join? Let the boy go if he wants to go; do you hear?”
“Oh ay, Quadratus! but lend me your car a moment, man; look you; for if I guess rightly, this same harmless stripling is nothing less than” – and here he sinks his voice to a whisper, and eyes his companion with a sagacious leer.
“Impossible, Maximan!” exclaims the other, starting back as if horror-stricken; “it cannot be, surely; he looks much too innocent for that. Prithee, tell us, young sir,” he continues, snatching at Symphorian’s cloak, “who art thou?”
“The son of the Decurion Faustus,” answers the other, mildly, and as he utters the words, his interrogator casts a look of triumph upon Maximan. “l told you were mistaken,” he cries; “now will you let him go?”
“Stop a minute, Quadratus; I am by no means so satisfied,” replies Maximan hastily; “my suspicions are not lulled so soon as you fancy! Hark you, my friend,” he cries, turning abruptly to his prisoner, “art thou not a Christian?”
A sudden pause and stillness falls upon the noisy turong at the words, and a crimson flush, faint indeed and momentary, rises to Symphorian’s forehead, as he marks the silence around him. But he does not hesitate, nor does his voice tremble as he gives his answer. Hardly is that answer given, than the hush of expectancy is broken by wild yells of execration, speedily echoed by the multitude now close at hand. The air rocks and shivers with tumultuous cries, – “A Christian! an infidel! Away with the godless Christian! Christianos ad cædes! Christianos ad leones!”
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Like one in a dream, Symphorian stands silent and calm in the midst of that savage crowd. Dimly he beholds, as in a vision, the sea of angry faces around him glaring upon him with wild fiery eyes. Dimly, as in a dream, he sees a dozen uplifted blades flash and quiver above his head in the red torchlight, yet he neither shrieks nor quails at the sight; he stands alone and unmoved, like a solitary rock in tempestuous waters; he stands, as a hundred years before the first martyr Stephen stood, calm and steadfast, in the midst of his murderers, bearing the face of an angel in the very presence of death.
But suddenly, just at the very moment that seems des-tined to be Symphorian’s last, the wary Marcellus bursts forward from the throng around him, and interposes his tall manly form between his enraged companions and their unshrinking victim.
“Stand back, you fools, you idiots!” he almost shrieks. “Here is no mere swineherd who in you may cut in pieces in the streets, and hear no more about it! Patrician blood is not so cheap at Boxum! What if the boy be a Christian? have you not heard but just now that he is the son of a Decurion?”
“He speaks truly enough, and wisely, townsmen,” answers a hoarse voice in the crowd. “But what then, Marcellus, shall we let him go?”
“No! no!” roar a hundred voices; “the gods forbid! Away with the infidel! Christianos ad leones! To death with the impious!”
“Carry him to the governor, townsmen,” suggested another voice, when the clamour had subsided. “Ay, ay! take him to Heraclus!” they burst out again in chorus: “Away with him to the dungeon; there is no liberty for Christians.”
“Be it so then, my friends,” rejoined Marcellus, stepping coolly backward from Symphorian’s side; “this, methinks, is a much wiser plan than stabbing him down unheard in the public ways. But be speedy on your errand, the sun is almost set.”
And Symphorian is led forward, an unresisting prisoner, and the crowd sweeps on again up the street, and again the clash of cymbals, the roar of drums, and the burden of that hateful cry burst forth like thunder upon the calm evening air, – “Hall to the great goddess! hall to the Magna Mater, the Mother of the Gods!”
* * * * * * * * * *
“I marvel, Emilia, that Symphorian tames so long; the sun hath been set this hour, and he promised us to return home before evening. I hope no mischance hath befallen the boy.”
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So, about an hour later, spoke the Decurion Faustus to his wife, as he stood beside an arched window facing the street, and with anxious countenance watched the grey night falling like a thick veil over the town.
Emilia did not answer. She sat silently, leaning back upon a couch at the other side of the apartment, her hands clasped firmly together, and her eyes fixed intently upon her husband, as though she were trying to read his thoughts. He turned away from the window, and met her glance. It did not move from his face, nor did the strange expression of her face alter, as they looked at each other.
“Emilia,” he said, “tell me what you are thinking of.”
“I was wondering,” she answered slowly, and still without moving her eyes from his, “what those shouts could mean, that we heard in the streets more than an hour ago.”
There was silence, and Faustus turned again to the window. After watching there in vain a few minutes, he exclaimed anxiously, “I can wait no longer, Emilia! I am going out, to see if I can hear any news of him, or perchance meet him.”
But as he crossed the room, he suddenly paused, and his wife following the direction of his glance, looked towards the doorway, and saw a figure standing there in the gathering darkness. She uttered a cry, and rose hastily from her seat.
“Victor!”
The boy came forward into the room, and as the light from the window fell upon his face, Faustus almost started at its unnatural paleness. Emilia saw it too, and reseating herself, she pointed to a vacant place beside her on the sofa, and held out her hand kindly to Victor. He sat down without speaking a word, leant his head upon her shoulder, and burst into a great sob. Faustus stood opposite and looked at them both, – the fair-haired lady, and the weeping boy, the black curls hanging so helplessly down over the folds of her white robe, and the brown hand clasped so lovingly within her own. Long time they sat together like this, and still Faustus stood silent, watching them, with a strange incomprehensible feeling at heart, – a feeling which at one time or another every one experiences, – that all that was then happening, was not new to him, but had already happened at some indefinite time gone by, and that he knew what was yet to happen.
It was Victor who first broke the silence.
“I heard the noise in the street,” he sobbed, still hiding his face on Emilia’s shoulder, “and I ran out to see what it meant. I heard shouting and music, and then I saw the glare of torchlights, and a great crowd of people passing along through the streets, and I followed them. When they came to the governor’s house, some of the crowd
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stopped, but the greater part went on, and then I saw it was the procession of the ‘Magna Mater.’ I did not care to follow that, so I vent with the others into the governor’s court. Then I heard some one say it was a seditious fanatic, and another, that it was a Christian whom they had brought there; and I stood by one of the pillars in the hall and waited to see the end. Then Heraclus came in, and several of his officers with him, and the people fell back, and I “saw the prisoner; – O, Lady Emilia, it was Symphorian!”
Faustus staggered back upon a couch, and covered his face with his hands.
“I knew it, – I knew it,” he groaned. “O, Symphorian! my son! my only son!”
Then there fell a hush and stillness upon the room, – a silence that had something terrible in it, like the shadow of a great dark cloud. Presently Emilia spoke.
“Go on, my child,” she said in a low tone, as she pressed the hand still clasped in hers, “what followed?”
“I cannot well remember,” he answered, ‘‘for I could do nothing but look at Symphorian, and I felt too miserable and sick at heart to note what came next; but I think some one stood forward and accused him of sedition, and of contempt of the gods and the imperial edict. And then I think the governor spoke to Symphorian, and asked him something, but I remember nothing distinctly, for the whole court seemed to rock and swim around me. At last I heard Symphorian’s voice speaking, and that was so sweet and familiar, that it brought new life to me, and I looked out from behind the pillar, and heard every word. ‘It is true, ‘he said, ‘I am a Christian, nor will I ever acknowledge any other God, than the God who reigns eternally in the heavens. And as for the idol that you would have me adore, I am readier rather to break it in pieces with a hammer than to bend my knee before it.’ (1) Then Heraclus turned to one of the officers and asked him a question, but I do not know what it was. I heard something said about ‘one of the noblest families in the province, ‘and then something else about the edict. And after that the officer brought out a great parchment, with seals upon it, and he stood forward, and read the Emperor’s commands that all who refused to obey him and the laws, and to acknowledge the gods of Rome, should be punished with death as traitors and seditious persons. When that was done,
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the governor told Symphorian that it” he did not choose to renounce his Christianity, or at least to conform to the worship of the gods, he must resolve to die, for that the Emperor must be obeyed. He did not seem very angry, though he said this, and I thought he looked at Symphorian as if he pitied him. For a long time he tried to make him yield to the edict, and give up his faith, and he said a great deal about his youth and friends, and the sweetness of life, and obedience to superiors. And then he talked about prison and chains, and tortures and death, and much more besides, though, I did not hear it all, for I was watching Symphorian and longing for him to speak again. And presently I heard him answer Heraclus that ‘no man putting his hand to the plough, and looking back, would be fit for the kingdom of God.’ Then the governor called to some of the officers, and they brought chains, and put them upon Symphorian’s hands, and led him away, and I heard them say he was taken to prison. Heraclus rose from his seat after that, and told the people that he would examine Symphorian there again in three days’ time, and give sentence. Then he left the hall, and the people began to move, and I came out into the street before them and ran here to tell you all.”
There was another pause. Faustus neither moved nor spoke, and Emilia, gently drawing her hand away from Victor’s as he lifted his head from her shoulder, rose, crossed the room noiselessly, and glided through the doorway into an adjoining chamber, whence she presently returned bearing in her hand a silver goblet filled with wine.
“Drink this, my child,” she said, stooping tenderly over him, and gently smoothing back the dark curls that hung in disordered masses about his forehead, while she placed the cup in his hand, – “drink this, you need it, Victor. And now,” she added, as he rose and placed the empty goblet upon a table beside him, “you must go home to your mother, it is nearly dark, but the streets are quiet now, and you have not far to go. Farewell, my dear boy, and God be with you.”
Victor gratefully kissed the hand she held out to him, and without trusting himself to speak another word, he raised his dark expressive eyes to her beautiful face, and turned away. The heavy silken folds of the curtain at the doorway rustled as he passed out, and the hall door closed behind him with a dull echoing clang, his retreating foot-steps sounded for a minute upon the pavement of the street, – then all was silent, and Faustus and Emilia were alone.
NOTE
(338:1) Tillemont’s Histoire Eclesiastique. Symphorian’s answers to Heraclus, during his trial, and his mother’s subsequent exhortation to her son on his way to execution, as here given, are not imaginary, but are actual translations of the original, in the Acts of SS. Benignus, Andochus, and Symphorian. Vide the Martyrologies of S. Jerome, Bed, Ado, Bollandus, Usuard, S. Gregory of Tours, and others.
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CHAPTER III
“These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” – REV. VII, 14
Two days had passed away since the events described in the last chapter took place, and another bright autumnal morning poured down its flood of warm sunshine into the busy town of Boxum.
It was just about the hour of noon, and a crowd of people had collected in the outer court of the governor’s house, for Heraclus that day intended to resume Symphorian’s trial, and pass sentence upon him. The greater part of the spectators were ranged round the hall in a loose semi-circle, a few less interested sauntered about in groups near the entrance, beguiling the time and amusing themselves with the conversation of the porters or door-keepers. Opposite the doorway, and under the carved architrave of a granite column, stood side by side, Faustus and Victor. The tall, military form of the decurion was shrouded and almost concealed beneath the folds of a thick, hooded cloak, thrown instead of a toga over the tunic of his dress. His arms were folded together on his breast, and his eyes were anxiously directed towards the entrance of the court. Presently the watchful expression of his countenance changed to one of intense earnestness, he bent eagerly forward, and there was a stir and movement, among the people in the hall. It was Heraclus who entered the court, attended by his officers, and followed soon after by several others conducting Symphorian. At the sight of his friend, Victor’s pale face flushed crimson, and the tears sprang quickly to his eyes, but the next moment he brushed them away, and pressed his trembling hands tightly together, as if he fain would crush the rising grief at his heart. There was a hum and murmur of compassion and surprise, not unmixed with admiration among the crowd, as the youthful prisoner, heavily fettered and surrounded by his guards, entered the court, for most of the spectators had come there expecting to see a traitor and a malefactor, but they beheld one who looked more like a hero.
Heraclus took his seat at the top of the hall, beneath a sort of apse, formed by a marble arch supported on either side by two massive pillars. His officers ranged themselves to the right and left of the tribunal, the guards stepped backwards into a line with the spectators, and Symphorian was left alone in the midst. How strangely unlike a criminal looked the noble youth standing’ there before that expectant multitude, his countenance as happy and as fearless
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as if there were no such things in the world as torture or death, and the bright sunny clusters of his golden hair, rippling like a glory round his head, an earnest of the bright crown soon to be placed upon his brows by One, mightier and more powerful than all the-judges of earth! Faustus looked earnestly at him awhile, and then, as many bitter thoughts came crowding thick and fast upon him, he wrapt his face in the folds of his mantle, and his heart sank within him, for he well knew that nothing short of apostasy could save his only son from a disgraceful and untimely death. He knew that very day would make him childless, – knew that henceforth there would be a vacant place beside him, in the home that had so long been Symphorian’s, – -knew that ere long, ay, in a few hours, the bright blue eyes that had so often met his with their sweet loving smile, would be dimmed and darkened by the mists of death; the hand so often clasped in his, cold and rigid as the senseless marble around him now, and the sunny curls of his hair all dabbled and clotted in blood.
“My God, my God!” he groaned in the bitterness of his grief, “why hast Thou forsaken me? Let this cup pass from me, O Lord; nevertheless––” But the holy words died upon his lips, he could not add, like his sorrowing Master, “not my will, but Thine be done.”
While thus Faustus struggled with himself, Victor laid his hand gently on his arm, and whispered to him in a broken voice that Heraclus was going to speak, and almost simultaneously the governor, turning to Symphorian, addressed him in these words: –
“Fair youth, we have summoned you a second time before our tribunal today, that you may the better learn from our lips in cooler moments, what you were three days since too obstinate or too proud to heed, in the excitement of that folly which you doubtless thought to be heroism. Since then, you have, at our commands, suffered the ignominy and pain of the scourge, and have lain two days without food in the darkness and loneliness of a dungeon. And all this we did, not because we desired to prolong your sufferings or disgrace, but because we would teach you to value more the sweets and delights of the home and the friendly companionship you heretofore professed yourself so ready to renounce. Consider well, therefore, whether you are willing to sacrifice yourself, your happiness, and doubtless that of your parents also, for the sake of a Christ, who is, as you see, powerless to help you even. in this distress; or whether you will not the rather consent to secure for yourself many long years of peace and tranquillity, by the utterance of a few short words. Your youth, your
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beauty, and your station, all of which are so pitiable in you as a prisoner, and so ill befit a condemned criminal, would serve, were you at liberty, to gain you favour with the emperor, and perchance raise you to a high station of honour and dignity in the state. I counsel you, then, to forsake this folly of Christianity, which can bring you nothing better than death and disgrace, and instead to seek the glorious laurels of valour, fame, and wisdom. Take my advice, therefore, and save yourself for better things, and if you will, I promise not to forget you when I return to Rome, and wait upon the imperial Aurelius.”
There was a profound hush of expectation among the assembled crowd as the governor ceased speaking, and Symphorian, raising his head, fixed his glance earnestly upon his judge’s face and briefly answered, –
“Think you, noble Heraclus, that it is an honourable thing in a judge to whom is committed the care of a province, that he should seek to make men traitors to their reason and their conscience, by teaching them to prefer such paltry gain as these worldly advantages and frivolities, to the true glory of acting uprightly and honestly? Would you have me forswear myself for the sake of such empty hopes as these?”
An involuntary murmur of admiration and sympathy greeted the noble youth as he ceased, and Heraclus, as anxious perhaps to vindicate himself in the opinion of the spectators, as to persuade his prisoner, hastened to reply.
“You misunderstand my words, young man. Think not that I am base and shameless -enough to desire that you should perjure yourself in order either to save your life, or to advance your interests with other men. Far indeed be it from me, or any judge, to inculcate such flagrant deceit and cowardice. But I would fain convince you of the utter folly and impiety of your present course of life, I would have you abandon Christianity, because it is hateful and detestable to gods and men, because its doctrines are pernicious, and its rites abominable, (1) – because it is worse than distasteful and degrading to noble and upright minds, – because it is inimical and hostile to the safety, welfare, and happiness of the Emperor’s subjects: and if these be not sufficient reasons to persuade you of your error, remember what obedience you owe as a loyal subject to your imperial lord, – what example you, as the son of a decurion, and the heir of a noble house, should set to others less noble than yourself, and let not your obstinacy or your false pride induce you to despise the commands of your Emperor; for there is nothing more unworthy or unbecoming one of
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your station, than wilful disobedience to national laws, and contempt of rightful power. From such a crime as this I desire to save you, and earnestly therefore I exhort and advise you to comply with the imperial edict, and do sacrifice to the immortal gods.”
He paused, and again the sweet tone of Symphorian’s voice rang like music through the silent hall, as, stretching forth his fettered hands towards the tribunal, he made answer, –
“I have already spoken, Heraclus; cease to argue with me, for I cannot obey you. For what hope would remain to me, if for the sake of obeying you, I should disobey God, and lose my own soul? Or what self-respect, what peace should I possess, did I allow myself to f all into the greatest and most dangerous of all crimes? You promise me treasures and riches more perishable and fragile than glass itself, in exchange for that wealth which the faithful possess always in Christ Jesus, and from which all the resolutions and changes of life, ay death itself, can take nothing. But as for you, though you should enjoy every advantage the world can offer, you can possess nothing in reality; your ambition will never be -satisfied, nor your mi n d left in peace, since as you can never be sure of retaining any single thing in your hands, you must be always in a perpetual inquietude and anxiety.”
“Foolish boy!” broke in the governor impatiently, “I have reasoned too long with you. But now your obstinacy and impertinence shall not go unpunished. Plautinus,” he continued, turning to his secretary, “write down the sentence. We condemn the prisoner, Symphorian, in accordance with the imperial edict, to suffer death by the sword, as a rebel against the laws, and an enemy of the gods and the state.”
Scarcely was Symphorian’s fate pronounced, than the guards advanced to lead him away, while the fickle crowd, forgetful of their former sympathy and the compassion they had but a few minutes since manifested for the prisoner, burst into unrestrained applause at what they now considered the justice of the governor’s decree.
The sound of their voices smote like a sharp dagger to the heart of Faustus. “Victor, Victor,” he groaned in a hoarse whisper, “pray for me; this is more than I can bear. Is not this indeed the alley of the shadow of death? O God, O God! he is my only son”
The cold drops burst out upon his forehead, and he wrung his hands in an agony of grief, as Victor, raising his tearful eyes to the decurion’s pallid, despairing countenance, answered gently, “Jesus said, ‘Whoso loveth son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me.’ ”
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For a moment no answer came but a sigh, deep and intensely awful, like the sound of the bitter night-wind sweeping over a troubled sea; and Victor, who had never before heard such a sigh, almost trembled for fear he had spoken unadvisedly. But as he wondered, the decurion’s voice, calmer and firmer now, reassured him.
“My boy,” he said, “you speak truly, for these are the words of the Blessed One: but yet it is a hard struggle to part thus. O my God, Thou only knowest how hard – ay, Thou indeed knowest, for Thou too hast sorrowed, even unto death. Victor,” he continued after a moment’s pause, “come with me; we will go and stand together by the entrance, that I may see him again as he passes; it will be for the last time, and after that we will go home.” As he spoke these words, he held out his hand almost lovingly to his young companion, and for the first time since his parting from Symphorian the tears glistened in the decurion’s eyes, as the boy looked u p trustfully into his face.
They stood beside the doorway of the court, in the shadow of the great marble-fluted columns, and as the guards leading their prisoner approached, Victor whispered timidly to Faustus, “Will you not speak to him, just one word – one word of farewell?”
But Faustus answered him in a hurried, constrained voice, “No, Victor, I cannot. He needs little the encouragement I could give him, and I should but unman myself; it is better as it is; but hush, he is coming.”
And Symphorian passed by, unconscious of the dear presence beside him, unconscious of the tearful, earnest eyes watching him so lovingly, unconscious of the prayerful blessing that was almost agonizing in its tenderness, “God in heaven bless thee, my dear, dear son!”
* * * * * * * * * *
We stand without the walls of the town, in the calm, warm air of evening, the open country lies before us with its fields, and vineyards, and pasture-lands, and here and there some nobleman’s villa peeping out from the surrounding parks or gardens. In the midst, a little winding river – almost nameless in modern times – ripples its waters through the bright landscape, mirroring in its clear, cool depths the far-off glories of the western heavens. And beyond, away in the distance, stands the chain of purple hills, bathed in the hazy light of sunset, like a golden frame encircling a beautiful picture.
But what two figures are these, that seem in their sadness and silence so strangely ill-set in such a fair and glorious scene? Ah, we need not look long upon that closely-veiled lady to know that she is Emilia, and the dark-haired boy by her side we recognise at once for Victor. But why are
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they here at such an hour, waiting beneath the wall of the town, and for whom or for what do they watch so anxiously?
But we soon cease to wonder, for now we can see a little band of soldiers issue from the gates of Boxum, and come slowly towards us, their arms and crests glistening and flashing in the warm light. They are the governor’s guards and lictors conducting a criminal to the place of execution, which is always outside – never within – the walls of the city.
Ah, me! that so bright, so beautiful a scene, so sweet and peaceful an hour, should be disgraced by human cruelty, sullied and polluted with human blood! O fair and glorious earth, teeming with all fragrance and brightness, how comes it that in the midst of such wondrous loveliness man should yet be so unlovely!
“They are coming, dear lady, he is coming,” whispers Victor as the group draws nearer; and the small white hand trembles beneath the dark folds of Emilia’s veil, as the sweet low voice answers him, “I know it, Victor, my boy is there. O God, I beseech Thee, give me grace to love Thy will.”
“Amen,” the boy returns reverently. “Do you remember, dear lady,” he adds, looking up in her face with misty eyes, “how only three days since, you told me that all things work together for the good of those who are faithful to their Lord? But, oh that it were not so hard, so very hard to part!”
Tremblingly Emilia draws aside the veil that, like a mantle, had shrouded her whole form in its graceful drapery, and the rich bright glow of the sunlight shines upon her beautiful face, as she clasps her hands together, and bursts into words of such passionate utterance, that it almost seems as if her heart itself must break for very earnestness.
“O sweet and gracious Lord Jesus;” she prays entreatingly, “look with the eyes of Thy compassion upon our anguish and bitterness of soul; and forasmuch as Thou art every-where, teach us to behold Thee in all things, and suffer not our foolish tears to blind our eyes, and hinder us from knowing Thee, lest we be like the weeping Mary Magdalene, who beheld Thee standing beside her, and yet knew Thee not!”
It is drawing nearer to us now, – that lonely little procession of death, and we can see how one walks first with uncovered head and fettered hands, and yet withal he seems more like a victor celebrating his conquests in a triumph, than a criminal going to execution. His eyes are fixed upon the bright halo of sunset over the distant hills, and his heart is full of still brighter thoughts. We cannot tell what those thoughts may be, but that they are sweet and blessed we cannot doubt. Perhaps as his eye rests on the fair, flowery landscape, sleeping so calmly in the golden mist of sunshine,
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he remembers the more glorious light that rests for ever upon the far-off hills of Paradise, where the blossoms are sweeter than all the flowers of earth, where there is no more death nor parting, where “the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” And, even in this terrible hour, those dear words of consolation rise to his lips, “In Te, Domine, confido, I will not fear what man doeth unto me.” Then as the holy accents yet linger in his heart like the echo of sweet, soft music, a gentle hand is laid upon his arm, and Symphorian turns and looks into his mother’s face.
They pause at once, all those rude soldiers, pagans though they be, for there is something in this that touches even hearts like theirs. And there is silence as she speaks, standing before her son tearless, calm, and almost majestic, and yet with such a world of love and tenderness in her deep eyes, that one could almost fancy her a being from another world, the pitying angel of Divine counsel and consolation.
“My child, my son, Symphorian,” she cries, spreading out her hands towards the heavens, now all aflame with the glories of myriad sunset dyes, “look up thither, and remember the living God, for Whose sake you are called to die. Arm yourself, my child, with faith and constancy, for so you shall overcome. Oh, why should we fear a transient death which leads to eternal life? Lift up your heart, Symphorian, and consider Him Who reigns in Heaven, The sentence pronounced against you is not to the end that you may lose your life, but, that you may obtain a better; for whoso giveth himself for Christ, the same shall save himself. The way that leads to Paradise is indeed strait and rugged, but it is short. If today, my son, you patiently and faithfully persist, you will pass from earth to heaven, and from death to life, to enjoy a happiness and glory without limit and without end.”
Another minute, and the last words of parting are said, – guards and captive have passed on their way, and Victor looking after them, sees dimly through the mist of his tears how Symphorian turns to wave his hand towards him in token of farewell, – then the flashing crests of the spears have dipped into the alley beyond, and he beholds them no more.
He turns again towards Emilia; she stands still and erect, full in the flood of golden light, her hands clasped on her heaving bosom, and her eyes fixed steadfastly on something far away. Was it only fancy, or did she really hear in the silence of that evening air the distant sound of sweet unearthly voices, singing alleluias to the Lamb that was slain?
NOTE
(342:1) The Pagans charged the Christians with the abominations of Œdipus and Thyestes. – Robertson’s Church Hist.
Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Índice da Obra Atual Anterior: The Children of the Kingdom Seguinte: Cædmon
