Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome
peach trees whose blossoms had opened out to the touch of the summer
breeze.
Beneath Tristan's feet, unknown to him, lay the sepulchral chambers of
pagan patricians, and the winding passage tombs of the Scipios. Out of
the sunshine of the vineyard Tristan's curiosity led him into the dusk
of the Columbaria of Pomponius Hylas, full of stucco altar tombs. He
descended into the lower chambers with arched corridors and vaulted
roofs where, in the loculi, stood terra-cotta jars holding the ashes
of the freedmen and musicians of Tiberius with their servants, even to
their cook.
Returning full of wonder to the golden light of day, Tristan retraced
his steps once again over the Appian Way. Passing the ruined Circus
of Maxentius, across smooth fields of grass, he saw the fortress tomb
of Cæcilia Metella, set grandly upon the hill. It appeared to break
through the sunshine, its marble surface of a soft cream color, looking
more like the shrine of some immortal goddess of the Campagna than the
tomb of a Roman matron.
And, as he wandered along the Appian Way, past the site of lava
pools from Mount Alba, remains of ancient monuments lay thicker
by the roadside. Prostrate statues appeared in a setting of wild
flowers. Sculptured heads gazed out from half-hidden tombs, while one
watch-tower after another rose out of the undulating expanse of the
Campagna.
To Tristan the memories of an ancient empire which clung to the place
held but little significance.
Here emperors had been carried by in their litters to Albano.
Victorious generals returning in their chariots from the south, drove
between these avenues of cypress-guarded tombs to Rome. The body of
the dead Augustus had been brought with great following from Bovilæ to
the Palatine, as before him Sulla had been borne along to Rome amid
the sound of trumpets and tramp of horsemen. Near the fourth milestone
stood Seneca's villa, where he received his death warrant from an
emissary of Nero, and nearby was that of his wife who, by her own
desire, bravely shared his fate.
And, last to haunt the Appian Way in the spirit pageant of the Golden
Age, a memory destined to lie dormant till the dawn of the Renaissance,
was Paul the Apostle, the tent-maker from Tarsus, who entered Rome
while Nero reigned in the white marble city of Augustus and suffered
martyrdom for the Faith.
It was verging towards evening when Tristan's feet again bore him past
the stupendous ruins of the Colosseum, through the roofless upper
galleries of which streamed the light of the sinking sun.
After reaching the Forum, almost deserted by this hour, save for a few
belated ramblers, he seated himself on a marble block and tried to
collect his thoughts, at the same time drinking in the picture which
unrolled itself before his gaze.
If Rome was indeed, as the chroniclers of the Middle Ages styled her,
"Caput Mundi," the Forum was the centre of Rome. From this centre
Rome threw out and informed her various feelers, farther and farther
radiating in all directions, as she swelled out with greatness, drawing
her sustenance first from her sacred hills and groves, then from the
very marbles and granites of the mountains of Asia and Africa, from the
lives of all sorts of peoples, races and nations. And like the Emperor
Constantine, as we are told by Ammianus Marcellinus, on beholding the
Forum from the Rostra of Domitian, stood wonder-stricken, so Tristan,
even at this period of decay, was amazed at the grandeur of the ruins
which bore witness to Rome's former greatness.
The sound of the Angelus, whose silvery chimes permeated the tomb-like
stillness, roused Tristan from his reveries.
He arose and continued upon his way, until he found himself in the
square fronting the ancient Basilica of Constantine.
Notwithstanding the fact that it was a Vigil of the Church, popular
exhibitions of all sorts were set upon the broad flagstones before
St. Peter's. Street dancing girls indulged on every available spot in
those gliding gyrations, so eloquently condemned by the worthy Ammianus
Marcellinus of orderly and historical memory. Booths crammed with
relics of doubtful authenticity, baskets filled with fruits or flowers,
pictorial representations of certain martyrs of the Church, basking
in haloes of celestial light, tempted in every direction the worldly
and unworldly spectators. Cooks perambulated, their shops upon their
backs, merchants shouted their wares, wine-sellers taught Bacchanalian
philosophy from the tops of their casks; poets recited spurious
compositions which they offered for sale; philosophers indulged in
argumentations destined to convert the wavering, or to perplex the
ignorant. Incessant motion and noise seemed to be the sole aim and
purpose of the crowd which thronged the square.
Nothing could be more picturesque than the distant view of the joyous
scene, this Carnival in Midsummer, as it were.
The deep red rays of the westering sun cast their radiance, partly
from behind the Basilica, over the vast multitude in the piazza. In
unrivalled splendor the crimson light tinted the water that purled from
the fountain of Bishop Symmachus. Its roof of gilded bronze, supported
by six porphyry columns, was enclosed by small marble screens on which
griffins were carved, its corners ornamented by gilded dolphins and
peacocks in bronze. The water flowed into a square basin from out
of a bronze pine cone which may have come from Hadrian's Mausoleum.
Bathed in the brilliant glow the smooth porphyry colonnades reflected,
chameleon-like, ethereal and varying hues. The white marble statues
became suffused with delicate rose, and the trees gleamed in the
innermost of their leafy depths as if steeped in the exhalations of a
golden mist.
Contrasting strangely with the wondrous radiance around it, the bronze
pine-tree in the centre of the piazza rose up in gloomy shadow,
indefinite and exaggerated. The wide facade of the Basilica cast its
great depth of shade into the midst of the light which dominated the
scene.
Tristan stood for a time gazing into the glowing sky, then he slowly
made his way towards the Basilica, the edifice which commemorated the
establishment of Christianity as the state religion of Rome, as in its
changes it has reflected every change wrought in the spirit of the new
worship up to the present hour.
CHAPTER XI
THE DENUNCIATION
The Basilica of Constantine no longer retained its pristine splendor,
its pristine purity as in the days, ere the revival of paganism by the
Emperor Julian the Apostate had put a sudden and impressive check upon
the meretricious defilement of the glory, for which it was built.
The exterior began to show signs of decay. The interior, too, had
changed with the inexorable trend of the times. The solemn recesses
were filled with precious relics. Many hued tapers surrounded the
glorious pillars, and eastern tapestries wreathed their fringes round
the massive altars.
As Tristan entered the incense-saturated dusk of St. Peter's, the first
part of the service had just been concluded. The last faint echoes from
the voices in the choir still hovered upon the air, and the silent
crowds of worshippers were still grouped in their listening attitudes
and absorbed in their devotions.
The only light was bestowed by the evening sun, duskily illuminating
the emblazoned windows, or by the glimmer of lamps in distant
shrines, hung with sable velvet and attended each by its own group of
ministering priests.
Struck with an indefinable awe Tristan looked about. At first he only
realized the great space, the four long rows of closely set columns,
and the great triumphal arch which framed the mosaics of the apse,
where Constantine stood in the clouds offering his Basilica to the
Saviour and St. Peter. Then he looked towards the sacred shrines
above the Apostle's grave, where lamps burned incessantly and cast a
dazzling halo above the high altar, reflected in the silver paving of
the presbytery and on the golden gates and images of the Confessio.
Immediately behind the altar was revealed a long panel of gold, studded
with gems and ornaments, with figures of Christ and the Apostles, a
native offering from the Emperor Valentinian III. The high altar and
its brilliant surroundings were seen from the nave between a double row
of twisted marble columns, white as snow. A beam covered with plates of
silver united them and supported great silver images of the Saviour,
the Virgin and the Apostles with lilies and candelabra.
To their shrines, to do homage, had in time come the Kings from all
the earth: Oswy, King of the Northumbrians, Cædwalla, King of the
West Saxons, Coenred, King of the Mercians, and with him his son
Sigher, King of the East Saxons. Even Macbeth is said to have made
the pilgrimage. Ethelwulf came in the middle of the ninth century,
and with him came his son Alfred. In the arcades beneath the columned
vestibule of the Basilica, tomb succeeded tomb. Here the popes were
buried, Leo I, the Great, being first in line, the Saxon Pilgrim Kings,
the Emperors Honorius III and Theodosius II, regarding whom St. John
Chrysostomus has written: "Emperors were proud to stand in the hall
keeping guard at the fisherman's door."
During the interval between the divisions of the service, Tristan,
like many of those present, found his interest directed towards the
relics, which were inclosed in a silver cabinet with crystal doors and
placed above the high altar. Although it was impossible to obtain a
satisfactory view of these ecclesiastical treasures, they nevertheless
occupied his attention till it was diverted by the appearance of a
monk in the habit of the Benedictines, who had mounted the richly
carved pulpit fixed between two pillars.
As far as Tristan was enabled to follow the trend of the sermon it
teemed with allusions to the state of society and religion as it
prevailed throughout the Christian world, and especially in the city
of the Pontiff. By degrees the monk's eloquence took on darker and
more terrible tints, as he seemed slowly to pass from generalities to
personal allusions, which increased the fear and mortification of the
great assembly with every moment.
From the shadows of the shrine, where he had chosen his station,
Tristan was enabled to mark every shade of the emotions which swayed
the multitudes and, as his eyes roamed inadvertently towards the chapel
of the Father Confessor, he saw a continuous stream of penitents enter
the dark passage leading towards the crypts, many of whom were masked.
Turning his head by chance, Tristan's glance fell upon two men who had
apparently just entered the Basilica and paused a few paces away, to
listen to the words which the monk hurled like thunderbolts across the
heads of his listeners. Despite their precaution to wear masks, Tristan
recognized the Grand Chamberlain in the one, while his companion, the
hunchback, appeared rather uncomfortable in the sanctified air of the
Basilica.
Hitherto Odo of Cluny's attacks on the existing state had been general.
Now he glanced over the crowd, as if in quest of some special object,
as with strident voice he declaimed:
"Repent! Death stands behind you! The flag of your glory shall cease
to wave on the towers of your strong citadel. Destruction clamors at
your palace gates, and the enemy that cometh upon you unaware is an
enemy that none shall vanquish or subdue, not even they who are the
mightiest among the mighty. Blood stains the earth and the sky. Its
red waves swallow up the land! The heavens grow pale and tremble! The
silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the desert make lament
for that which shall come to pass, ere ever the grapes be pressed or
the harvest gathered. It is a scarlet sea wherein, like a broken and