Fabiola; Or, The Church of the Catacombs

by Nicholas Patrick Wiseman

“Stop, stop,” cried out Corvinus, “we must go more systematically to work than this.”

He had reverted in thought to the recollection of his own sweet school-boy days; that time which most look back on from hearts teeming with softer feelings than the contemplation of present things can suggest. He indulged in the reminiscence of that early season in which others find but the picture of unselfish, joyous, happy hours; and he sought in the recollection what would most have gratified him then, that he might bestow it as a boon on the hopeful youths around him. But he could think of nothing that would have been such a treat to him, as to pay back to his master every stroke of correction, and write in blood upon him every word of reproach that he had received. Delightful thought, now to be fulfilled!

It is far from our intention to harrow the feelings of our gentle readers by descriptions of the cruel and fiendish torments inflicted by the heathen persecutors on our Christian forefathers. Few are more horrible, yet few better authenticated, than the torture practised on the martyr Cassianus. Placed, bound, in the midst of his ferocious young tigers, he was left to be the lingering victim of their feeble cruelty. Some, as the Christian poet Prudentius tells us, cut their tasks upon him with the steel points used in engraving writing on wax-covered tablets; others exercised the ingenuity of a precocious brutality, by inflicting every possible torment on his lacerated body. Loss of blood, and acute pain, at length exhausted him, and he fell on the floor without power to rise. A shout of exultation followed, new insults were inflicted, and the troop of youthful demons broke loose, to tell the story of their sport at their respective homes. To give Christians decent burial never entered into the minds of their persecutors; and Corvinus, who had glutted his eyes with the spectacle of his vengeance, and had urged on the first efforts at cruelty of his ready instruments, left the expiring man where he lay, to die unnoticed. His faithful servant, however, raised him up, and laid him on his bed, and sent a token, as he had preconcerted, to Pancratius, who was soon at his side, while his companion looked after preparations for their departure. The youth was horrified at what he beheld, and at the recital of his old master’s exquisite torture, as he was edified by the account of his patience. For not a word of reproach had escaped him, and prayer alone had occupied his thoughts and tongue.

Cassianus recognized his dear pupil, smiled upon him, pressed his hand in his own, but could not speak. After lingering till morning he placidly expired. The last rites of Christian sepulture were modestly paid to him on the spot, for the house was his; and Pancratius hurried from the scene, with a heavy heart and a no slight rising of its indignation, against the heartless savage who had devised and witnessed, without remorse, such a tragedy.

He was mistaken, however. No sooner was his revenge fulfilled than Corvinus felt all the disgrace and shame of what he had done; he feared it should be known to his father, who had always esteemed Cassianus; he feared the anger of the parents, whose children he had that day effectually demoralized, and fleshed to little less than parricide. He ordered his horses to be harnessed, but was told they must have some more hours’ rest. This increased his displeasure; remorse tormented him, and he sat down to drink, and so drown care and pass time. At length he started on his journey, and after baiting for an hour or two, pushed on through the night. The road was heavy from continued rain, and ran along the side of the great canal which drains the Pontine marshes, and between two rows of trees.

Corvinus had drunk again at his halt, and was heated with wine, vexation, and remorse. The dragging pace of his jaded steeds provoked him, and he kept lashing them furiously on. While they were thus excited they heard the tramp of horses coming fast on behind, and dashed forward at an uncontrollable speed. The attendants were soon left at a distance, and the frightened horses passed between the trees on to the narrow path by the canal, and galloped forward, rocking the chariot from side to side at a reckless rate. The horsemen behind hearing the violent rush of hoofs and wheels, and the shout of the followers, clapped spurs to their horses, and pushed gallantly forward. They had passed the runners some way when they heard a crash and a plunge. The wheel had struck the trunk of a tree, the chariot had turned over, and its half-drunken driver had been tossed head over heels into the water. In a moment Pancratius was off his horse and by the side of the canal, together with his companion.

By the faint light of the rising moon, and by the sound of his voice, the youth recognized Corvinus struggling in the muddy stream. The side was not deep, but the high clayey bank was wet and slimy, and every time he attempted to climb it his foot slipped, and he fell back into the deep water in the middle. He was, in fact, already becoming benumbed and exhausted by his wintry bath.

“It would serve him right to leave him there,” muttered the rough centurion.

“Hush, Quadratus! how can you say so? give me hold of your hand. So!” said the youth, leaning over the bank and seizing his enemy by his arm, just as he was relaxing his hold on a withered shrub, and falling back fainting into the stream. It would have been his last plunge. They pulled him out and laid him on the road, a pitiable figure for his greatest foe. They chafed his temples and hands, and he had begun to revive when his attendants came up. To their care they consigned him, together with his purse, which had fallen from his belt as they drew him from the canal. But Pancratius took possession of his own pen-knife, which dropped out with it, and which Corvinus carried about him, as evidence to convict him of having cut down the edict. The servants pretended to Corvinus, when he had regained consciousness, that they had drawn him out of the water, but that his purse must have been lost in it, and lay still buried in the deep mud. They bore him to a neighboring cottage, while the carriage was being repaired, and had a good carouse with his money while he slept.