Valerius. A Roman Story

by J. G. Lockhart

We retired, therefore, into the apartment of my young friend; but he could not read a page without coming upon some verse which made him throw down the scroll to ruminate on the charms of his Sempronia. When he took up his lute, his fingers seemed to evoke only the most melancholy sounds. It was only in the exercise of the foil, that he succeeded in banishing from his thoughts the troubles of his situation; but both of us having contended till [pg 197]we were breathless, were soon compelled to sit down, and then the unhappy boy’s exhausted body seemed to communicate a new debility to his mind. We sat for the most part in silence, (for I soon found that I could not say any thing capable of interesting him,) until the shades of evening had quite darkened the chamber, and then we walked together, not less silently, in the adjoining open gallery, until the moon had arisen from above the tall poplars around the Pantheon and Baths of Agrippa, and diffused her radiance over all the beautiful gardens and noble edifices that lay beneath us down to the brink of the river. Lassitude of spirit then, if not expectation of sleep, rendered Sextus desirous of retiring to his couch; so, having exhorted the youth to wrestle with his grief, and to call hope to his aid, I at length left him to himself. But as for me, I had as yet no feeling of weariness, and, besides, I remembered the promise I had made to Dromo in the morning.

I was very much surprised, indeed, that the Cretan had not as yet come to me, and made inquiry concerning him of Boto; but hearing that the man was absent from the house, I thought from this there was the more likelihood of his being engaged in some scheme, the result of which I should by and by learn from his own lips. I dismissed my Briton, therefore, and prepared to read by my watch-light, and while I was considering what I should read, I remembered the scroll I had received from Tisias, which forthwith I took from the place in which I had locked it up on the morning of the preceding day. There fell from out of it, as I unfolded it, a letter sealed, but without any superscription. This I of course considered as meant only [pg 198]for the eye of Athanasia; so I kissed the parchment her fingers were destined to touch, and, before I began to read, restored it to its receptacle.

More than one of you, my young friends, have already heard me speak, on another occasion, of the impression which that night’s reading made upon my mind, and been told, from my own lips, what book it was that was contained in the scroll of Tisias; the rest of you will judge for yourselves with what astonishment it was that I, who had at the best expected to unfold some obscure treatise of Asiatic lore, some semi-barbarous exposition of mystical riddles, found myself engaged in the perusal of a plain and perspicuous narrative of facts, written evidently by a man of accomplishment and learning, and in Greek of which the most elegant penman of these times could have had no occasion to be ashamed. In a word, it was the Gospel of the holy physician St Luke which had been put into my hands; and at this day I am still grateful that this was the first of the Christian books which I had an opportunity of seeing; for such had been my education, that I am afraid others, not less worthy of the true faith, might have repelled me by the peculiarities of their composition, as well as by the acquaintance with many things, to me then entirely unknown, which they take for granted in the style of their commencement. Here, however, there was enough only of mystery, the more effectually to stimulate my curiosity, while the eagerness with which I engaged myself in its gratification, was abundantly repaid from the beginning, both by the beauty of the simple narrative itself, and the sublimity of the conceptions embodied and evolved in its course.

Considering the book which I was reading, as one merely of human origin and invention, I could not help regarding it with such admiration, that it appeared to me above all things wonderful, I had never seen it mentioned by any of the writers of the age, or heard it spoken of by any of those who, in my presence, since I came to Rome, had talked concerning the faith and doctrines of the persecuted Christians. But this was not all. At least, said I to myself, there is something here which deserves to be inquired into and examined. Of things such as these, if told falsely, it must needs have been—nay, it must still be, easy to prove the falsehood. It is impossible that, in the days of Tiberius, any such events should have occurred in Palestine, without being more or less submitted to the inspection of Roman eyes. This is no wild tale, handed down from the dark ages of a barbarous race. Here I have a Roman Centurion described as among the witnesses of this man’s miraculous power, and acknowledging the divinity of his benevolence. Here, at least, must have been one spectator without prejudices, otherwise than against this Prophet of Nazareth. Of a surety, the legends of Rome herself contain many tales which demand a much greater measure of indulgence; since the wonders they narrate appear to have been oftentimes attended with no beneficial consequences, either to individuals or to the state; whereas here the occasion seems always to have been such as might justify the interference of supernatural might. The power of this person seems to have been exerted only for good; and his precepts are full of such godlike loftiness as neither Socrates, nor Plato, nor any of those Greek sages, who [pg 200]bowed in reverence to the hoary wisdom of Egypt and India, would have disdained to admire.

The doubts, suspicions, and distrusts, with which such thoughts were mingled,—the under-current of reluctance with which I felt myself all along contending,—were such as you may more easily imagine than I can describe.

As the narrative went on, however, you will have no difficulty in supposing that my attention became more and more rivetted, and that, occupied with the strange events and sublime scenes it unfolds—and agitated by turns with the pity, the wonder, the terror, and the admiration that matchless story must ever awaken,—I had forgotten every thing beyond the page of the volume on which my finger was fixed.

It was only the rustling of Dromo’s cloak against the edge of my chair, that made me aware my privacy was disturbed. His hands seemed to be busied in tightening his girdle even before he was able to speak, and the first words he uttered, were—“Come, sir—this is no time for study. I have acquaintance with some of the soldiers at the Capene Gate, and they will let us pass through; but they are relieved at the next watch, and then we shall have no chance.”—“And why,” said I, hastily thrusting the scroll into my bosom—“why, Dromo, or for what purpose should we desire to pass through the Capene Gate at the dead hour of night?”—“Come,” said he; “there is no time for explanation. It is simply because it is the dead hour of night that we must pass through the gate; for it would do nobody any good to pass through at any other time. Come—or abandon Sextus to his fate.”

Thus adjured, I could not oppose any obstacle to his zeal. The chained porter was lying asleep across the threshold; but Dromo had already found means to have the door opened, so he leaped lightly over the man, and I imitated his agility. The Cretan then locked the gate on the outside, by means of a key which he carried in his bosom; and I followed his rapid steps without farther question.

This cunning varlet, (who seemed, indeed, to move as if he had a natural aversion to every open place,) threaded one obscure lane after another, keeping always, where the moonlight had any access, to the dark side of the way; a person better skilled than myself might well have been somewhat puzzled; as for me, I had not the least conception whither I was going. Close, however, did I adhere to him; and we reached the Capene Port, which is on the south side of the city, not many bow-shots from the Anio, before I could have imagined it possible to traverse so great a space.

Here Dromo told me to wait for him a single moment, and stepped down into a cellar, in which a light was burning; but he staid not long, and when he returned to me, I observed that his style of walking was more clumsy than usual, which, indeed, was not to be wondered at, considering that he had now to carry, not only himself, but two huge skins of wine, intended, as I at once suspected, for the purpose of facilitating our passage. I told him my suspicion in a whisper; but he made no answer, except by handing to me one of his burdens. So laden, we crept on as well as we could to the portal, beneath the shadow of which two Prætorians were pacing, their armour ringing audibly upon [pg 202]them amidst the silence of the night.—Silently did the well-oiled hinges turn, and very silently stooping did we step beneath the lintel of the Capene Gate, which as silently was again made fast.