About midway between the Forum and Coliseum we had passed—as no Jew ever does—under the Arch of Titus. It spans the Via Sacra, leading right on from the southern gate of the city through the Forum to the Capitol. The pavement of huge square blocks of lava is the same on which rolled, joltingly in their springless chariots, the conquerors returning in triumph with such griefful captives in their train as are sculptured upon the inside of this arch. The Goths, the Middle Ages, and the Popes (or their nephews), dealt terrible blows at the procession of Jewish prisoners, bearing the seven-branched candlestick, the table of shew-bread, and the golden trumpets of the priests. Arms and legs are missing, and features sadly marred. But drooping heads and lax figures, and the less mutilated faces express the utter dejection, the proud but hopeless humiliation of the band who left their happier countrymen dead by famine, crucifixion, the sword and fire, in the ashes of their city.
A rod or two further, and we were in the Via Appia.
“In that vineyard,” said I, pointing to a rickety gate on our left, “are the remains of the Porta Capena, where the surviving Horatius met and killed his sister as she bewailed the death of her lover, the last of the Curatii. Her brother presented himself to her wearing the cloak she had embroidered for and given to her betrothed.”
“The whole story is a highly figurative history of a war between the Romans and Albans,” began Caput, mildly corrective. “The best authorities are agreed that Horatii and Curatii are alike mythical.”
I should have been vexed upon any other day. Had I not seen, beyond the fifth milestone on this very road, the tombs of the six combatants? Had not my girlish heart stood still with awe when Rachel, as Camille, fell dead upon the stage beneath the steel of her irate brother?
I did say—I hope, temperately—“Cicero was welcomed at the Porta Capena, by the Senate and people, on his return from banishment, B. C. 57. That is, if there was ever such a man as Cicero!”
The Baths of Caracalla; the tombs of the Scipios; the Columbaria of the Freedmen of Augustus; the Catacombs of St. Sebastian and of St. Calixtus—are situate upon the Appian Way. Each should have its visit in turn. Any one of them was, in speculators’ slang, “too big a thing” for one Christmas forenoon. We were on pure pleasure bent—not in bondage to Baedeker. A quarter of a mile from the road, still to our left, the ground falls away into a cup-like basin, holding the Fountain of Egeria enshrined in a grove of dark ilex-trees. A couple of miles further, and we passed through the Gate of San Sebastian, supported by two towers in fair preservation. We were still within the corporate limits of Old Rome. At this gate welcoming processions from the city met those who returned to her in triumphal pomp, or guests, to whom the Senate decreed extraordinary honors. A little brook runs across the road at the bottom of the next hill, and, just beyond it, is the ruined tomb of the murdered Geta. At a fork in the highway near this is a dirty little church, set down so close to the road that the mud from passing wheels has spattered the front. Here, according to the legend, Peter, fleeing from Nero’s persecution, met his Lord with His face toward the city.
“Lord! whither goest Thou?” exclaimed the astonished apostle.
“I go to Rome to be again crucified!” answered the Master.
Peter, taking the vision as a token that he should not shrink from martyrdom, returned to Rome.