VOL. “Do you know this lady?”
COR. “The noble sister of Poplicola,
The moon of Rome: chaste as the icicle
That’s curdled by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian’s temple: dear Valeria!”
The ancient city of Romulus had risen from her ashes like the fabled
phœnix, with renewed youth and beauty. So greatly was her appearance
altered, that Lucius Claudius knew not where to seek his ancestral home,
as, regardless of the directions of his attendants and the proffered
guidance of Sabinus, he wandered on bewildered and amazed amongst
sumptuous edifices and streets of palaces. All indeed seemed new to his
eyes and heart. It was no longer the city founded by the Latian twin,
and rebuilt by Camillus, that he beheld, but the palace of Nero Cæsar,
the master of the world. She looked indeed more like the metropolis of a
mighty empire, though her real greatness had vanished with her ancient
simplicity and virtue. Even in the midst of her grandeur and
magnificence she was tottering to her fall, for her deep corruptions
were gradually unbarring her gates to the Goths of future ages. All that
was beautiful or venerable in her customs was gone “as a tale that is
told,” and the martial form of the military tribune, the worthy
representative of her illustrious sons, seemed as out of keeping with
the pomp that surrounded him on every side, as the appearance would have
been of one of his own warlike ancestors. The dominion of Rome indeed
was departing, for a highway for the promulgation of the gospel had been
opened by her armies to all lands—for which end alone she had been
given rule over the nations of the earth. Neither the heathen nor the
Hebrew perceived this. To Lucius Claudius the name of Rome was
synonymous of victory and power; to him she was sempiternal and
invincible, while to Adonijah she appeared only a magnificent prison,
within whose walls he was destined to waste away his life, the living
grave indeed of hope. Still, the curiosity inherent in human nature made
him suddenly ask the meaning of a sad procession they encountered near
the Forum.
Sabinus replied, “Some Roman citizen is led to execution, attended by
the lictors with their fasces. See, the axe before him denotes that it
is no slave about to suffer, but a person entitled to the privileges of
the free. A Christian, I should think, by his dress and bearing. If I
mistake not, Nymphidius and Tigellinus, the præfects of the prætorian
camp, are present, both low-born upstarts and favourites of Nero; the
first, the son of Nymphidia by Caius Cæsar,[7] as he would have it
thought, and many think his person bears a strong resemblance to that
frantic emperor: in cruelty he certainly can claim a kindred
disposition. The victim is unknown to me, but his venerable face
expresses goodness, now become a crime in Rome.”
While Sabinus was yet speaking, a magnificent chariot approached, drawn
by four white horses, containing a young female attired in white robes
bordered with purple. She wore on her head a species of cap decorated
with ribbons, but her brow was bound with a fillet, and the beauty of
her complexion, which was very fair, accorded well with her snowy
drapery and modest dignity of mien. A lictor preceded the chariot, which
was followed by a number of female attendants, likewise dressed in
white.
The sudden halt of the vehicle gave Adonijah time to observe the vestal
virgin and her suite more closely, but he noticed that every one but him
stepped respectfully back to permit the cortege to pass unimpeded.[8]
The vestal and her train appeared by no means inclined to avail
themselves of the passage thus opened for them by the reverential crowd;
on the contrary, her attendant lictor seemed bent upon contesting some
matter with those who were bearing the condemned Christian to death.
“By Jupiter, the deliverer!” cried Lucius in an animated tone: “the
vestal virgin hath claimed her privilege in favour of the Christian.
See, the lictors prepare to unbind him at her bidding.”
“The prætorian præfects deny her claim,” replied Sabinus, “and motion to
the lictors to advance—who hesitate, yet lower their laureled fasces
reverentially before the sacred maid. Hark! she speaks.”
The import of the vestal’s words might rather be guessed from her manner
than understood by the ear, but it was evident that those to whom she
made her claim were determined to disallow it.
“Forward, Sabinus! forward, friends and clients! forward, Roman
citizens! let us defend the privileges of the vestal order.” Thus
saying, Lucius Claudius endeavoured to pierce through the crowd that now
closely environed the chariot, yet could not at once accomplish his
intention, though he was near enough to hear the conference between the
contending parties.
“No; let her ply the distaff, watch the sacred fire, be borne in triumph
through the streets, enjoy the homage with which old superstitious times
and customs have invested her; but let her not presume to interfere with
Cæsar’s ministers in matters that concern the state,” cried Tigellinus,
addressing the listening crowd.
“Roman citizens,” said the vestal, turning to the people, “I claim of
you the privileges granted by holy Numa to our order. The laws of Rome
grant to us the power of saving any criminal we may chance to meet upon
his way to execution.” She blushed deeply as she made her dignified
appeal, and her voice though sweet was tremulous.
“My sister’s voice and person, if my ears and heart tell truly,”
remarked Lucius Claudius in an under tone to the freedman.
“It is indeed the Lady Lucia, the pride of Roman ladies, the glory of
the vestals,” returned Sabinus.
“We will protect thy privileges, Lucia Claudia,” cried a thousand
voices, which the deep tones of the delighted brother united with his
followers to join.
“I swear,” continued Tigellinus, “that the meeting was premeditated. She
knew Helius occupied the tribunal, and came to snatch the atheist from
justice.”
“I call upon the name of Vesta to attest my truth,” replied the vestal
in a firmer tone than that in which she recently made her claim; “I
plead the law of Numa.”
“I abrogate it thus in Cæsar’s name,” cried Tigellinus, snatching an axe
from the hand of a lictor, and upraising it to slay the Christian.
Lucius Claudius sprang forward to defend his sister’s privilege, but
before he gained the spot, the colleague of Tigellinus had caught his
arm and preventing his design, bowed low before the vestal whose beauty
had subdued his wish to slay, saying, “Forbear, Tigellinus, to infringe
the privileges of the vestal order. Respect the goddess Vesta herself,
in the person of the noblest and fairest of Roman ladies.” Then fixing
his bold eyes admiringly upon Lucia Claudia, he continued: “The man who
can resist charms like thine were worse even than the churlish Greek who
wounded Venus in his ireful mood. See, the sword of justice is edgeless
before the pleading voice of beauty.” He motioned to the lictors to
unbind the Christian, still gazing ardently upon the fair countenance of
Lucia Claudia.
From the licentious stare and free speech of Nymphidius the vestal
virgin shrank abashed. Her modest eyes sank beneath those the præfect
boldly turned upon her lovely face. She looked no longer like the
high-minded heroine who daringly opposed bad men in power to plead her
rights of mercy, but like a timid maid whom compassion had led to
overcome the weakness and fearfulness of her sex, but who now blushed at
the effect of her own temerity, ashamed of the triumph her virtue and
charms had won. This beautiful shame, this touching timidity, the
expression of wounded modesty in her bashful eyes, excited a new feeling
in the bosom of the Hebrew slave, who no longer regarded the sister of
Lucius as a heathen priestess, but as a woman the loveliest and purest
of her sex.
Linus, the rescued Christian, turning to his preserver, thanked and
blessed her; but with an air of offended dignity the vestal turned away.
“Go,” she said, “amend thy creed and live.”
“So near the gate of heaven—and yet so distant!” rejoined the
Christian. “Farewell, Lucia Claudia, and peace be with thee: we shall
meet again.”
Linus, the second bishop of Rome, though rescued from martyrdom by Lucia
Claudia, was still, he saw, an object of scornful pity in her eyes who
had prolonged his life for other labours, and perhaps other trials, by
her instrumentality. He thanked God who had inclined an idolatrous
priestess of Vesta to assert her privilege in his favour. Some words of
saving truth he would have addressed to his benefactress, but that he
saw this was no time or place to preach the gospel. She looked too
obdurately upon the man she had lately preserved, to listen to the
wonders of redeeming love. Gratitude, however, that very essence of true
Christianity, forbade Linus to forget he owed his life to her. From that
day he never ceased to pray that the bright effulgence of Divine light
might dispel the darkness that overshadowed the soul of the young Lucia
Claudia.
She, indeed, turned coldly away from him. This was not unnatural in the
heathen priestess, but it pained the Christian who withdrew to the
asylum the labyrinth of the Arenaria afforded, resolving to use every
effort to convert the young vestal to the pure faith of Christ.
Lucius Claudius, full of fraternal pride, gazed fondly and admiringly
upon his lovely sister. His eyes betrayed indeed more emotion than he
cared the crowd should witness, yet he could not delay making himself
known to her.
“Noble Roman maid, thou shouldst be my own beloved Lucia. The blue eyes,
the fair complexion of the Claudian line, should denote my sister,”
cried he, endeavouring to force a passage to the chariot.
The vestal looked upon him intently, but her memory retained no trace of
her elder brother’s person.
“’Tis Lucius Claudius, ’tis thy brother, returned from Parthia, to
behold in thee, dear maid, all that fraternal love could hope to see,”
said Lucius, advancing to greet his sister.
Lucia again raised her eyes to his face, but with a look of glad
surprise, as with speechless rapture she motioned to him to ascend the
chariot, and then, throwing herself upon his neck, wept with all the
fond familiarity of long-remembered affection. She conducted her brother
to his home in a sort of triumph, where she took leave of him, and
returned to Mount Palatine where she dwelt.
Adonijah could not efface from his mind the image of the vestal virgin;
could it be that he, the strictest of the strict Pharisees, should
behold with interest and tenderness this idolatrous priestess who had
looked upon the stately maids of Judah with coldness. If this were love,
he knew it to be forbidden by the law, and therefore sinful as it was
hopeless. He tried to exclude from his mental vision the form of Lucia
Claudia, but in vain; and when he slept, he slept to dream of her sweet
image.
Nor was it only in the breast of the Hebrew slave that the beauty and
virtue of Lucia Claudia had kindled an unextinguishable flame.
Nymphidius, that bold bad man, was no less captivated with her charms
and spirit. He determined to win her for his bride, in defiance alike of
the sanctity of her profession or her patrician birth. To a mind so
lawless what was custom? to one so aspiring what was the nobility of the
beloved object but an additional motive for the alliance? His grasping
hand, already struggling for the imperial sceptre of the Cæsars, would
not hesitate to tear from its seclusion “this white and virgin rose,”
whose purity had inspired that passion in his bosom the corrupt and
dissipated ladies of the court had failed to kindle. Bad as he was, he
felt the power, the majesty of virtue, and did homage to it in the
person of the priestess of Vesta, and even the empire of the world
without her to share its honours appeared too poor to satisfy the wild
ambition of the reputed son of Caligula.
-----
[7] Caligula.
[8] See Appendix, Note V.