Valerius. A Roman Story

by J. G. Lockhart

This sort of speech he repeated so often, that I thought the best way would be to tell him frankly the true history of the adventure, from whose immediate consequences he had delivered me. I told him, therefore, every thing about both Tisias and Athanasia, and, indeed, kept nothing from him in the whole matter, except only what referred to the impression made on my own mind by what I had read of the Christian book,—for, as to this subject, it was one which I totally despaired of being able to make him in any measure comprehend,—and besides, the state of my own mind was still so uncertain in regard to it, and my information so imperfect, that I could not trust myself with speaking of it to any one, until I should have had leisure for more both of reading and of reflection.

He preserved silence for some minutes, and then said, [pg 238]“In truth, Caius, you have distressed me. I thought it was merely some little frolic born of an hour, to be forgotten in a day; but I cannot refuse you my sympathy. Would I had more to offer!”—“Dear Sabinus,” said I, “I know not how to thank you. You saw me but a few days ago the merriest young fellow that ever trod the pavement of Rome—happy in the moments that passed, and full of glad hopes for all that were to come; but now I feel myself quite changed. Almost I wish I had never left my British fields; and yet I should never have seen Athanasia.”—“Poor fellow!” quoth he, laying his hand on the mane of my horse, “I perceive there is, indeed, no trifling in your case. Compose yourself; whatever chances there may be in your favour will never be bettered by despondence.” He paused a little, and proceeded—“The worst of the whole is this new bitterness against these Christians. Except during Nerva’s time, there was always some punishment to be feared by them, in case of being detected; but there was a way of managing things in almost every case, and people were well enough disposed to grant immunities which were always attended with some good to the Fisk. Nero and Domitian, to be sure, acted otherwise—but these were madmen; and even they did so only by fits and starts. But now, when a prince like Trajan has taken up the matter, it is no wonder that one should consider it more seriously. One cannot help fancying he must have had some good reason before he began—that is one thing; and having once begun, he is not the man to drop it lightly—which is a more weighty consideration. Do you think there is positively no chance of her giving [pg 239]up this dream, when she finds what it has exposed her to?”

“No,” said I; “I am sure she will not, nor can I wish it would be otherwise with her.”

“Well,” he resumed, “I enter into your feelings so far, my friend, even on that point. I cannot imagine you to have been so deeply smitten with a girl of a flighty unsteady character. But then this is not a case to be judged of on common principles. It is no light thing to be exposed to such examinations as are now set afoot for these people; and if she behaves herself so resolutely as you seem to expect, what is the end of it? I consider it highly probable—for there is no friendship in uncandid speaking—that, in spite of all her friends can do, they will banish her at the very least; scarcely dare I speak of it, but even worse than banishment has heretofore befallen Romans—ay, Roman ladies too,—and these as high in birth and place as Athanasia.”

“My dear Sabinus,” said I, “do not imagine that now for the first time all these things are suggested to me. Imagine rather, how, unable for a moment to expel them from my mind, I have spent these miserable hours. Her friends, too, what must not be their alarm!”

“The thing was so done,” quoth the Centurion, “that I think it is impossible it should have made much noise as yet. If there was in the family no suspicion that the lady had any connection with these people, they must be in perfect perplexity. I lay my life they take it for granted she has had some private intrigue, and has gone off with her lover.”

“Alas!” said I, “when they hear the truth, it will be still worse than this in their eyes. Yet it appears fit that no time should be lost in making them acquainted with the real state of the case. O Sabinus, I foresee that in all these things I shall have need of your counsel and your help.”

“You shall have them both, my dear boy,” said he,—“you shall have them both to the uttermost. But there is no question at all about the propriety of telling the relations all you know. Licinius is probably well acquainted with them. I am almost sorry for having prevented your immediate return to the city; and yet one night will soon be over.”

“But Athanasia herself——”

“Ah! that indeed is a point of some difficulty. It was merely from having remembered who the men were that rode off with you, that I was enabled to learn so soon whither you yourself had been conveyed. But the party consisted of a few men out of almost every one of our cohorts,—those, in short, that were on duty, scattered up and down in different parts of the city; and I may not find it very easy to discover who had the care of any other individual.”