There is even now--when the sweeping hand of ages has levelled with the earth so many of the things which in the times we speak of were in their splendour--there is even now at the foot of Pincianus a deep, shady grove of tall trees, amid the stems of which the treacherous sunshine of the Roman spring pours its mellow light with a peculiar charm. This, however, is but a small vestige of the magnificent wood that at one period covered the side of the hill, and swept over the undulating country at its base, a wood consisting solely of high upright trees, springing from a green and luxuriant turf, which their own shadow kept cool and verdant. A bright stream, long since licked up by the burning sun, then meandered round the foot of the hill full of delicious water, brawling sportively with the stones which formed its bed; and by the side thereof, every here and there an open space appeared, as if left by the taste of some skilful planter, either for wanderers through that enchanted scene to pause upon and gaze on the cool wave, or for the gay and happy to meet in and prolong the hours with feast and revelry.
At either end of the wood, nearly a mile apart from each other, the one being situated half way up the slope, the other at its base, were two villages, which, though not remote from Rome, had, from various accidental circumstances, maintained in all ages much less communication than might have been expected with the great city, and which preserved with peculiar tenacity those old manners and customs which the secluded and the rustic adhere to with such fond affection. In vain had the customs of the city changed--the villagers of Pincianus changed not with Rome. In vain had empire succeeded republic, and effeminacy and luxury flowed in with demoralizing power--the villagers retained their old simplicity, and, when they carried their produce to the town, but shrugged their shoulders at the strange and women-like men that they beheld. In vain even had the emperors put down by severe laws the poetical religion of their forefathers, and established a purer faith in its place--the villagers still loved their old deities and served their old gods. Even more, they resisted the words of truth when the ministers of truth visited them in person; and driving forth from among them the preachers of the Gospel, they returned to their old rites with persevering zeal.
Severe and more severe measures had been employed to put down paganism. Temples had been changed into churches; altars had been overthrown; the blood of the priest had been mingled with the blood of the victim, and the lives of the worshippers had been taken in the very act of sacrifice: but still the villagers adhered to their old faith, and through nearly a hundred years of persecution and suffering had retained, either openly or secretly, their reverence for the things their fathers had revered before them.
A season of comparative tranquillity had succeeded; and though the persecution of the idolaters had been cruel and virulent during the first years of the reigns of Theodosius and Valentinian, yet for the last lustre this rigour had been relaxed; and though still obliged to conceal, as far as possible, the rites and ceremonies which they practised, those who persevered in heathenism had suffered no very severe inflictions.
It was in one of those open spots, by the side of the stream which we have already described, that on a bright May day were assembled a multitude of people, clothed in white garments, and met together, apparently, for the purpose of offering sacrifice. The turf, out of which no tree grew, covered a space of nearly a hundred yards in diameter; but over a great part thereof hung the wide-spreading branches of the large oaks around, giving shade to the sylvan amphitheatre thus formed on the banks of the little river. The waters flowed on clear and sparkling; the murmurs of a distant fall filled the air with music; bright sunshine was pouring over all the scene and dancing through the leaves upon the turf below; flowers crowned the heads of all the assembly, and gemmed the verdant carpet on which they trod. Everything was smiling and beautiful; and, if the mind could be divested of the remembrance of the dark and sinful object for which the idolaters met, the whole scene had in it something so graceful, so poetical, so exciting, that one might well gaze with raised enthusiasm, even if one took no part in the rite which was about to be performed.
With such feelings stood Ammian Flavius, a little apart from the rest, leaning against one of the trees, at a little distance from which two servants held his horse. Four years had now passed since the period which the reader first beheld him; and while Theodore had expanded into a handsome and powerful man, Ammian, from the wild and beautiful boy which we at first portrayed, had grown up into a tall, graceful, manly youth. His fine features, his noble air, and his symmetrical form, might well attract attention; and many were the eyes that turned upon him among those who met to offer on that day a sacrifice to their false deity. They gazed, however, without any mingling of apprehension; for it was not uncommon for some of the wild youths of the great city to steal out in secret to behold those rites to which their concealment gave an additional charm.
The day had waned considerably, and the sun was approaching the west. The flamen of Jupiter, as he called himself, though the office had been long abolished, stood in his purple robe beside a small altar raised in the midst, and strewed with flowers, and a number of gay laughing boys led along, with sportive glee, a milk-white bull, its neck wreathed with garlands, and its broad brow crowned with flowers. Long nurtured for the purpose of the sacrifice, and rendered familiar with the hands of men, which had never yet been raised against it with violence, the noble beast, unconscious of its coming fate, walked calmly in the midst, suffering itself to be led up to the altar with an untightened rope. Beside the priest stood the cultrarius, leaning on his axe, and all pressed near to behold the ceremony of immolation.
The invocation and the prayer had been pronounced; and the cultrarius, turning to the priest, demanded in the accustomed form, "Shall I do it?"
"Do it!" replied the priest, and swinging the axe above his head, the stout peasant who performed that office laid the monarch of the herd, at a single blow, dead at the foot of the altar. The priest was hastening to apply the knife, when Ammian, hurrying forward, exclaimed, "I hear coming horses, my friends, be upon your guard."
All looked up and listened, and some thought that they also heard the sounds; but if it was so, those sounds ceased almost instantly, and the ceremony proceeded, while Ammian, with his colour slightly raised at the mistake he appeared to have made, retired again to the tree by which he had formerly stood, and continued to gaze upon the proceedings of the rest.