“A mighty spirit is eclipsed—a power
Hath passed from day to darkness.”
BYRON.
The horrors of conscience so lately endured by Nero were still visible
on his ghastly brow, and his gloomy eye glared ferociously upon Julius
Claudius as he entered his presence. The artful courtier’s countenance,
however, betrayed no alarm, and he commenced singing some verses of
Nero’s composition in a voice of exquisite sweetness. The imperial frown
vanished, the stern features relaxed into smiles, and when Julius
Claudius besought his pardon for joining such lofty strains to notes so
feeble, the illustrious bard caught up the words, which he sang in a
voice destitute alike of strength or sweetness. Julius affected
unbounded rapture, and Cæsar forgot his nocturnal agony in delighted
vanity. The artful flatterer had but to name the favour his brother had
requested, and it was instantly granted.
As soon as he had obtained the order for the transfer of Adonijah’s
person, he hastened to the Isthmian trench, where he had appointed to
meet his brother.
Well pleased at the success of Julius, the tribune commanded the fetters
to be stricken off the limbs of the captive, who, before he made the
slightest acknowledgment to his benefactor, kneeled down, and in an
audible voice returned thanks to that Almighty Being whose instrument
only he considered Lucius Claudius to be.
“Truly thou art likely to possess the most grateful of all servants,”
remarked Julius, “and the most courteous too withal. He would make, in
truth, a noble gladiator; for I never saw a form more perfect, or
features more symmetrical: but for a household slave the fellow is
useless. You had best send him to the circus.”
“Thy jests are bitter,” returned his brother, “but I forgive thee since
the slave is mine.”
“Set sail for Rome to-night, and I am paid for all my pains,” replied
Julius, with an expression of peculiar meaning on his face, as he bade
Lucius Claudius farewell.
Near the gate of the city Lucius Claudius met Sabinus, the freedman of
Corbulo, with consternation and grief painted on every feature. The
tribune uttered the name of his revered commander. He remembered his
brother’s hints, and feared that Nero’s jealousy might be awakened by
the great leader’s glory. Sabinus briefly told the tragic fate of a hero
worthy of a happier destiny and better times.
For a moment Lucius Claudius stood transfixed with horror, and then
drawing his sword, was rushing forward with the evident intention of
seeking out the emperor and revenging his friend, when Sabinus, guessing
his design, caught him by the arm, and drawing him aside, represented to
him the madness as well as uselessness of such an attempt. Apparently
his reasons were too solid to be resisted; for, motioning Adonijah to
follow him to his lodging, he entered the city with an air of forced
calmness that formed a strange contrast to his late paroxysm of
resentment.
Sabinus employed himself in making preparations for the funeral rites of
his friend and patron, while Lucius Claudius, with Roman fortitude,
forbade his countenance to wear the guise of grief; but, following his
effeminate brother’s advice, engaged a passage in a merchant-ship for
himself and his followers to Italy.
The shades of evening had long descended on the wooded heights of Mount
Cithæron, whose rugged brow cast a deep lengthened shadow on the plain.
The moon-beams slept upon the deep blue waves that washed the Isthmus,
while the stately city, with its Acropolis rising like a majestic crown
above it, looked, as it shone in the lunar ray, like an enchanted place
called up by magic from the deep rather than the abode of man. The vivid
flame that suddenly shot up along the shore, casting the figures moving
solemnly around it in deep shadow, might have suggested the idea of
magic rites. But the forms that paced about that blazing pile were
engaged in no unholy practices. Theirs was the hallowed office of
rendering the last honours to the remains of Corbulo, previously to
their quitting these fatal shores.
Long, long did those faithful friends and followers gaze upon the
features of the illustrious dead, before the hand of Lucius Claudius
fired the pile. With wonder Adonijah contemplated the lofty lineaments
and singularly grand figure of the murdered Roman of whose fame and
virtue he had heard so much; for Domitius Corbulo soared in stature as
much beyond all other Romans of his day, as he exceeded them in glory.
The manly eyes of Lucius Claudius overflowed with tears, but tears soon
dried up by the hope of vengeance. Each of that mourning group, dipping
their hands in the streaming blood of Corbulo, swore to revenge his
death on Nero, or perish in the attempt. The pile was fired; and Lucius
Claudius and Sabinus watched the dissolution of the form they loved,
gathered up the ashes in an urn, and, deeply sorrowing, bore them on
board the vessel hired to convey them to Italy.
Adonijah beheld the classic shores of Greece receding from his sight
with the indifference of one to whom all countries could only offer
variety in bondage. The apathy of slavery began to steal over him; and
it was not till the emotions of the long-absent Romans grew apparent as
they approached the coast of Italy, that the remembrance that he was an
exile from his own country returned in all its bitterness to his soul.
With feelings of rapture, of patriotism, that even prevailed over their
sorrow, the Romans stretched out their arms towards their
fatherland,—tears filled their eyes as each imaged to himself the dear
unforgotten ties of home. “Italy, dear Italy! once more I look upon thy
sacred soil,” cried Lucius Claudius. “Soon, soon shall I behold the
seven-hilled city; shall see thee, dear vestal maid, sweet Lucia, sister
of my heart. Sabinus, you have been at Rome since she attained to
womanhood, for she was but a child when she took her virgin vows upon
her. Tell me, how looked the maiden when you last beheld her?”
“Like a pure and spotless lily among the gaudier flowers of Rome,”
replied Sabinus. “Her vigils have somewhat stolen the rose of childhood
from her polished cheek, but lovelier looks, methinks, that holy
paleness than the brightest hues of health and gladness. The vestal
priestess in her sacerdotal robes eclipses the proud dames of Rome in
beauty as in virtue.”
“She, she, Sabinus, and the mighty recollections of this fallen land,
are all that make life bearable to me.” The tender feelings of his heart
filled the tribune’s eyes; he turned to Adonijah, of whose observation
he felt jealous, and said, as if in extenuation of his emotion, “Thou
hast a country—perhaps a sister too.”
“I had, but she has fallen a victim to the slaughtering sword of the
Gentile,” replied the Hebrew, “and gone down to the grave in the virgin
beauty and glory of her youth. Yet art thou happier, Tamar, than thy
miserable brother; for thy ashes are mingled with the sacred soil of thy
country, whilst I am cast out to wither like an abominable branch in a
strange and idolatrous land.” Then, relapsing into his own language,
Adonijah poured forth a strain of wailing lamentation, with the
spontaneous eloquence natural to the Eastern nations, unrestrained by
the presence of Lucius Claudius and his followers.
The tribune respected his grief, nor did he intrude upon it by again
addressing him; and the silence remained unbroken till the master of the
vessel landed them at Baiæ, from whence they proceeded to Rome.