The night which followed her heartsearching experience of feeling on looking down upon the sleeping city of Bath, Zenobia had a dream. It was a vision of extraordinary vividness, and strangely circumstantial. Beneath her eyes the golden light of a summer sunset was flooding the temples, the baths, the stately villas of ancient "Rome in England"—the city of Sulcastra. Garbed as a Priestess of the Temple, she stood upon a plateau, high on the Hill of Sul on the east side of the valley. Behind her rose the Temple of the Goddess, and by her side stood one whom she knew to be the sculptor Lucius Flaccus, son of that centurion who was charged to carry Paul from Adramythium to Rome. He had been telling her in graphic phrases of his association with the great Apostle; how for the first time he had heard him on Mars' Hill at Athens boldly rebuking the listening and resentful throng who had erected there an altar to the unknown God. Then with a gesture of repugnance which horrified the priestess, the narrator, quoting the Christian preacher's words, had turned and pointed towards the Temple in which she with other vestals kept ever burning the sacred fire of Sul.
"Forasmuch, then, as we are the offspring of God, we ought not to think that the Godhead is like silver[Pg 67] or gold, graven by art or man's device...." Thus far he had spoken when her own voice interrupted passionately:
"Do not blaspheme the gods!"
"The gods are dead," he answered sternly, "nay, rather, they have never lived. Our Roman gods have eyes that see not, ears that hear not, they are but silver, gold, or stone—the work of hands like these." Thus speaking, he held forth his hands, delicate and mobile, in one of which was grasped the chisel of his ancient art. The priestess stood for a moment looking in his eyes, silent, terror-stricken. "Yet," he went on, bending his gaze upon the city with a sigh, "Sulcastra is beautiful."
He knew and loved each particular feature of artistic beauty in the city. Its architecture afforded him a delight that never failed. The symbolic work of the chisel was evidenced on every side. The noble columns that supported the terraces; the pavements resembling those of Pompeii; the graceful friezes and delicate cornices appealed irresistibly to every votary of art. Indeed, the Therm? of Sulcastra were held by many of the cultured Romans to be not less splendid than the baths at Scipio Africanus, or even those built at Rome by Caracalla and Diocletian. For here, too, the lofty chambers were ornamented with curious mosaics, varied in rich colours and infinitely delicate in design. And here, also, the medicinal waters were poured into vast reservoirs through wide mouths of precious metal and Egyptian granite, while the green marble of Numidia had been brought from afar to give variety to the native stone from the adjacent quarries. The fame of the wonderful waters went back for eight centuries before the birth of Christ. Here, according to tradition, Bladud, son of Lud[Pg 68] the British King, father of King Lear, had found a cure for his foul leprosy. Yonder had stood the first Temple of Minerva, dedicated by that same Bladud to the goddess. Had he not sought by magical aid to soar aloft like the eagle, only to fall and be dashed to pieces on Minerva's altar?
The sculptor shaded his eyes against the slanting rays of sunlight, and turned his gaze upon the vast stadium in which at stated intervals the people of Sulcastra witnessed the elaborated games of mighty Rome. Such an occasion recently had occurred, a scene of splendid pageantry and power which invariably moved the spectators to superstitious awe, and often to wild excesses of fanaticism. Young and old had implored the favour of the gods, and pledged themselves to maintain unbroken the religious observances of the Rome people. In the darkness of night, mystic sacrifices had been offered on the banks of the river; and the whole city, as the sculptor and the priestess now looked down upon it, still seemed to be fermenting with the excitement which the great celebration had occasioned.
At that very moment an imposing procession was seen to be advancing towards the Temple of Minerva. Trumpet note after trumpet note echoed round the hills. Chariots full of garlands and branches of myrtle approached the shrine. A large black bull was being led to the sacrificial altar, and youths and maidens, chanting a hymn to Minerva, carried in procession costly vases full of wine and milk to be poured as libations to the goddess, while others bore cruets of wine, oil, and perfumed essences to anoint the pillars of the sacred monuments within the temple.
Lucius Flaccus looked down upon the procession with sad and moody eyes. The Vestal's eyes were bent no less sadly on the sculptor, as if divining all[Pg 69] his thoughts. They sprang, she doubted not, out of the subject of their conversation, and she turned uneasily towards the pillar-altar on which the sculptor's skilful hands had been at work. It stood upon the turf at the entrance to a little grove which gave access to the gates of the Temple of Sul, the temple in which she herself ministered as priestess.
A cloth lay over the graceful monument, to the inscription upon which the young Roman had but just now put the final touch. His work upon the monument, screened from view, had long excited the interest and curiosity of the Romans and the slaves who passed that way, but reverence for the goddess and respect for the sculptor himself had served to arrest all questions. The work of art, it was thought, would be unveiled in time; and doubtless it would prove to be another and a worthy tribute to the goddess who presided in a special manner over the fortunes of the city.
Lucius Flaccus had studied in a great and noble school. He had gazed long and often on the famous statue of the Olympian Jove modelled in ivory by the master hand of Phidias. He had marked every curve and feature of the Minerva—standing sixty cubits high—on whose shield the great Athenian sculptor had so marvellously represented the wars of the Amazons. There were those, indeed, familiar with the work of the young Roman who foretold for him an imperishable reputation as an exponent of the noble art to which he was devoted.
Lucius Flaccus had been welcomed in Sulcastra as one who was likely to add to the beauty of the city, and the honour of the special goddess of the citizens. The sculptor's art, like the Ten Commandments, was written on tables of stone. It was for all time; nearly five hundred years had passed since the chisel[Pg 70] dropped from the hand of Phidias, but the glory of his work remained. It was indestructible. So also, thought some, might the handiwork of Lucius Flaccus be handed down from century to century.
The cult of Sul was scarcely distinguishable from that of Vesta. Like Vesta, she was a home-goddess, a national deity, whose vestals were solemnly pledged ever to maintain her altar-fire, lest its extinction should bring disaster on the people.
Sul, also, was a fire deity. According to the kindred mythology of Scandinavia, the goddess was so beautiful a being that she had been placed in heaven to drive the chariot of the Sun from which she took her name—that glorious sun, the rays of which were now illuminating the city of Sulcastra. Sul, in the eyes of the Romans, was more exalted than Soma, daughter of the Moon, though in the East Soma was held in the highest reverence as the mother of Buddha. Soma was the sovereign goddess of plants and planets. In the Vedic hymns she was identified with the moon-plant which a falcon had brought down from heaven. Its juice was an elixir of life. To drink it conferred immortality on mortals, and even exhilarated the gods themselves. But even greater virtue and miraculous power did the Romans attribute to the waters of Sul, and with better evidence of their potency. For here, in Sulcastra, century after century, and ever at the same temperature, the magical, unfathomable well had poured forth its mystic waters for the healing of the people.
The Temple of Sul, like that of Vesta, was circular, to represent the world; and in the centre of the temple stood the altar of the sacred flame, ever burning to symbolise the central fires of Mother Earth, just as the sun was deemed to be the centre of the universe.
[Pg 71]
There were nothing strange or unusual in freedom of conversation between the Priestess and the Sculptor—who, in former years, had added many decorations to the Temple. The virgin priestesses were permitted to receive the visits of men by day; by night none but women were suffered to enter their apartments, which adjoined the sacred building in which they ministered. Each priestess was pledged to continence for thirty years. During the first ten they were employed in learning the tenets and rites of their religion. During the next ten they engaged in actual ministrations. In the final ten years they were employed in training the younger vestals, and after the age of thirty they might abandon the functions of the temple and marry. Few exercised that option. Custom, when such an age was reached, had become ingrained, the impulses of youth frozen, and the honour paid to their office became more valued than the prospects of marriage.
The reverence shown to them was very great, but so also was the punishment that followed a lapse from the letter or the spirit of their duties. The least levity in conduct, the smallest neglect of ministerial duty, was dealt with by the Pontifex or the Flamens, and visited with great severity. The loss of virginal honour, or the failure to maintain the sacred fire, involved a penalty of inexpressible terror. The condemned priestess, placed in a litter, shut up so closely that her loudest cries were scarcely audible, was carried through the city in the order, and with the adjuncts, of a funeral procession, a journey of death in life—its goal the niche or narrow vault in which the living vestal was to be immured.
[Pg 72]
THE SCULPTOR'S STORY.
The dreamer knew these things, and still dreamed on. It seemed as if her own voice broke the silence:
"Fain would I know more of this same Paul of whom you speak."
Then she paused, but looks still questioned him. Presently the young Roman spoke again—
"My father, the centurion Julius, was charged to carry him to Rome, and I had planned to bear him company. We took ship to sail along the coasts of Asia; touched at Sidon and afterwards at Cyprus, the winds being contrary. Later we transhipped at Alexandria, and thus reached Crete. The seas grew dangerous, and the sailors feared. Scarcely had we sailed when there arose that strong, tempestuous wind they call Euroclydon. The ship, being caught, could not bear against the wind, and we let her drive. Then, near the island of Clauda, we were like to be driven on the shore; and fearing quicksands, we struck sail, and so were driven again. The tempest tossed us, and the ship was lightened. We cast adrift the tackling; but still the tempest held us; neither sun nor star appeared for many days, and all that time the ship was driven before the storm, until at length the shipmen deemed that we drew near to land. They sounded and found twenty fathoms. Again they sounded and found five fathoms less. Then, fearing we should be upon the rocks, they made all haste to cast four anchors from the stern, and waited for the day."
"The storm had lasted long?"
"For fourteen days and nights."
"And there were many in the ship?"
"Two hundred, three-score and sixteen souls; and everyone was saved. Land lay before us, though we knew it not. But we discovered close at hand a[Pg 73] creek. So they took up the anchors, loosed the rudder-bands, hoisted the mainsail to the wind, and made for shore. She ran into a place where two seas met, and went aground. The forepart held and seemed immovable, but soon the hinder part was broken by the violence of the waves. The soldiers then would have killed all the prisoners, lest they should escape, but my father stayed their hands. Those who could swim sprang first into the sea. Others on boards, and some on broken pieces of the ship, made for the land, and I, with all the rest, came safe ashore."
"The gods be thanked; the gods be thanked for that." The words came fervently from the Vestal's lips.
He turned on her and sighed. "What! still the gods?"
She pressed her hands upon her brow. "Is there no more to tell?"
He paused a moment. "Already I have told too much if told in vain. The island we had reached was Melita, and Publius, the chief man of the place, received us courteously. Paul healed his father of a grievous sickness, and many others also, ere we departed in a ship of Alexandria. We touched at Syracuse, and then at Rhegium, whence we went towards Rome. There many brethren greeted Paul with joy, and there in reverence and sorrow did I part from him."
"And he—this Paul himself?"
"Remains at Rome, having his own hired house, receiving all who come to him, preaching of the Heavenly kingdom, teaching with all confidence, of the coming of the Christ—no man yet forbidding him."
Deep silence fell between them, and the only sound[Pg 74] came from a droning that in Sulcastra never ceased by night or day—the voice of the rushing river as it poure............