Aurelian; or, Rome in the Third Century
meet with his deserts. As the eye of Varus fell upon Probus, and he too
became aware who it was that stood at his tribunal, he bent courteously
towards him, and saluted him with respect.
'Christian,' said he, 'I sincerely grieve to see thee in such a pass.
Ever since I met thee in the shop of the learned Publius have I
conceived an esteem for thee, and would now gladly rescue thee from the
danger that overhangs. Bethink thee now--thou art of too much account to
die as these others. A better fate should be thine; and I will stand thy
friend.'
'Were what thou sayest true,' replied Probus, 'which I am slow to
admit--for nobler, purer souls never lived on earth than have but now
left this spot where I stand--it would but be a reason of greater force
to me, why I should lose my life sooner than renounce my faith. What
sacrifice can be too holy for the altar of the God whom I serve? Would
to God I were more worthy than I am to be offered up.'
'Verily,' said Varus, 'you are a wonderful people. The more fitted you
are to live happily to yourselves, and honorably to others, the readier
you are to die. I behold in you, Probus, qualities that must make you
useful here in Rome. Rome needs such as thyself. Say but the word, and
thou art safe.'
'Could I in truth, Varus, possess the qualities thou imputest to me,
were I ready on the moment to abandon what I have so long professed to
honor and believe--abjuring, for the sake of a few years more of life, a
faith which I have planted in so many other hearts, and which has
already brought them into near neighborhood of a cruel death? Couldst
thou thyself afterward think of me but as of a traitor and a coward?'
'I never,' said Varus, 'could do otherwise than esteem one, who, however
late, at length declared himself the friend of Rome; and, more than
others should I esteem him, who, from being an enemy, became a friend.
Even the Emperor, Probus, desires thy safety. It is at his instance that
I press thee.'
Probus bent his head and remained silent. The people, taking it as a
sign of acquiescence, cried out, many of them, 'See, he will sacrifice!'
Varus too said, 'It needs not that the outward sign be made. We will
dispense with it. The inward consent, Probus, shall suffice.
Soldiers!--'
'Hold, hold, Varus!' cried Probus, rousing himself from a momentary
forgetfulness. 'Think not, O Prefect, so meanly of me! What have I said
or done to induce such belief? I was but oppressed for a moment with
grief and shame that I should be chosen out from among all the
Christians in Rome as one whom soft words and bribes and the hope of
life could seduce from Christ. Cease, Varus, then; these words are
vain. Such as I have been, I am, and shall be to the end--a Christian!'
'To the rack with the Christian then!' shouted many voices from the
crowd.
Varus enforced silence.
'Probus,' said he, as order was restored, 'I shall still hope the best
for thee. Thou art of different stuff from him whom we first had before
us, and leisure for reflection may bring thee to another mind. I shall
not therefore condemn thee either to the rack or to death. Soldiers,
bear him to the prisons at the Fabrician bridge.'
Whereupon he was led from the tribunal, and conducted by a guard to the
place of his confinement.
* * * * *
The fate of Probus we now regard as sealed. In what manner he will
finally be disposed of it is vain to conjecture, so various are the
ways, each one more ingenious in cruelty than another, in which
Christians are made to suffer and die. Standing as he does, as virtually
the head of the Christian community, we can anticipate for him a death
only of more refined barbarity.
Felix too, we learn, is confined in the same prison: and with him all
the other principal Christians of Rome.
* * * * *
We have visited Probus in his confinement. You do not remember, Fausta,
probably you never saw, the prison at the Fabrician bridge. It seems a
city itself, so vast is it, and of so many parts, running upwards in
walls and towers to a dizzy height, and downwards to unknown depths,
where it spreads out in dungeons never visited by the light of day. In
this prison, now crowded with the Christians, did we seek our friend. We
were at once, upon making known our want, shown to the cell in which he
was confined.
We found him, as we entered, seated and bending over a volume which he
was reading, aided by the faint light afforded by a lamp which his
jailer had furnished him. He received us with cheerfulness, and at his
side on the single block of stone which the cell provided for its
inmates, we sat and long conversed. I expressed my astonishment that the
favor of a lamp had been allowed him. 'It is not in accordance,' I said,
'with the usages of this place.'
'You will be still more amazed,' he replied, 'when I tell you through
whose agency I enjoy it.'
'You must inform us,' we said, 'for we cannot guess.'
'Isaac's;' he replied. 'At least I can think of no other to whom the
description given me by the jailer corresponds. He told me upon bringing
it to me, that a kind-hearted old man, a Jew, as he believed him, had
made inquiry about me, and had entreated earnestly for all such
privileges and favors, as the customs of the place would allow. He has
even procured me the blessing of this friendly light--and what is more
yet and which fills me with astonishment--has sent me this volume, which
is the true light. Can it be that Isaac has done all this, who surely
never has seemed to regard me with much favor.'
'Never doubt that it is he,' said Julia; 'he has two natures, sometimes
one is seen, sometimes the other--his Jew nature, and his human nature.
His human heart is soft as a woman's or a child's. One so full of the
spirit of love I have never known. At times in his speech, you would
think him a man bloody and severe as Aurelian himself; but in his deeds
he is almost more than a Christian.'
'As the true circumcision,' said Probus, 'is that of the heart, and as
he is a Jew who is one inwardly, so is he only a Christian who does the
deeds of one and has the heart of one. And he who does those deeds, and
has that heart--what matters it by what name he is called? Isaac is a
Christian, in the only important sense of the word--and, alas! that it
should be so, more than many a one who bears the name. But does this
make Christ to be of none effect? Not so. The natural light, which
lightens every man who cometh into the world will, here and there, in
every place, and in every age, bring forth those who shall show
themselves in the perfection of their virtues to be of the very lineage
of Heaven--true heirs of its glory. Isaac is such a one. But what then?
For one such, made by the light of nature, the gospel gives us
thousands. But how is it, Piso, in the city? Are the wolves still
abroad?'
'They are. The people have themselves turned informers, soldiers, and
almost executioners. However large may be the proportion of the friendly
or the neutral in the city, they dare not show themselves. The mob of
those devoted to Aurelian constitutes now the true sovereignty of
Rome--the streets are theirs--the courts are theirs--and anon the games
will be theirs.'
'I am given to understand,' said Probus, 'that to-morrow I suffer; yet
have I received from the Prefect no warning to that effect. It is the
judgment of my keeper.'
'I have heard the same,' I answered, 'but I know not with what truth.'
'It can matter little to me,' he replied, 'when the hour shall come,
whether to-morrow or to-night.'
'It cannot,' said Julia. 'Furnished with the whole armor of the gospel,
it will be an easy thing for you to encounter death.'
'It will, lady, believe me. I have many times fought with enemies of a
more fearful front. The enemies of the soul are those whom the Christian
most dreads. Death is but the foe of life. So the Christian may but live
to virtue and God, he can easily make his account with death. It is not
the pain of dying, nor the manner of it, nor any doubts or speculations
about the life to come, which, at an hour like this, intrude upon the
Christian's thoughts.'
'And what then,' asked Julia, as Probus paused and fell back into
himself, 'is it that fills and agitates the mind? for at such a moment
it can scarcely possess itself in perfect peace.'
'It is this,' replied Probus. 'Am I worthy? Have I wrought well my
appointed task? Have I kept the faith? And is God my friend and Jesus my
Saviour? These are the thoughts that engross and fill the mind. It is
busy with the past--and with itself. It has no thoughts to spare upon
suffering and death--it has no doubts or fears to remove concerning
immortality. The future life, to me, stands out in the same certainty as
the present. Death is but the moment which connects the two. You say
well, that at such an hour as this the mind can scarce possess itself
in perfect peace. Yet is it agitated by nothing that resembles fear. It
is the agitation that must necessarily have place in the mind of one to
whom a great trust has been committed for a long series of years, at
that moment when he comes to surrender it up to him from whom it was
received. I have lived many years. Ten thousand opportunities of doing
good to myself and others have been set before me. The world has been a
wide field of action and labor, where I have been required to sow and
till against the future harvest. Must I not experience solicitude about
the acts and the thoughts of so long a career? I may often have erred; I
must often have stood idly by the wayside; I must many times have been
neglectful, and forgetful, and wilful; I must often have sinned; and it
is not all the expected glory of another life, nor all the honor of
dying in the cause of Christ, nor all the triumph of a martyr's fate,
that can or ought to stifle and overlay such thoughts. Still I am happy.
Happy, not because I am in my own view worthy or complete, but because
through Jesus Christ I am taught, in God, to see a Father. I know that
in him I shall find both a just and a merciful judge; and in him who was
tempted even as we are, who was of our nature and exposed to our trials,
shall I find an advocate and intercessor such as the soul needs. So
that, if anxious as he who is human and fallible must ever be, I am
nevertheless happy and contented. My voyage is ended; the ocean of life
is crossed, and I stand by the shore with joyful expectations of the
word that shall bid me land and enter into the haven of my rest.'
As Probus ended these words, a low and deep murmur or distant rumbling
as of thunder caught our ears, which, as we listened, suddenly increased
to a terrific roar of lions, as it were directly under our feet. We
instinctively sprang from where we sat, but were quieted at once by
Probus:
'There is no danger,' said he; 'they are not within our apartment, nor
very near us. They are a company of Rome's executioners, kept in
subterranean dungeons, and fed with prisoners whom her mercy consigns to
them. Sounds more horrid yet have met my ears, and may yours. Yet I hope
not.'
But while he yet spoke, the distant shrieks of those who were thrust
toward the den, into which from a high ledge they were to be plunged
headlong, were borne to us, accompanied by the oaths and lashes of such
as drove them, but which were immediately drowned by the louder roaring
of the imprisoned beasts as they fell upon and fought for their prey. We
sat mute and trembling with horror, till those sounds at length ceased
to reverberate through the aisles and arches of the building.
'O Rome!' cried Probus, when they had died away, 'how art thou drunk
with blood! Crazed by ambition, drunk with blood, drowned in sin,