“Whose is that sword, that voice and eye of flame,
That heart of unextinguishable ire?
Who bears the dungeon keys, and bonds, and fire?
Along his dark and withering path he came—
Death in his looks, and terror in his name.”
ROSCOE.
Fresh from the waters of baptism, and united with the Church in the holy
rite by which Christians commemorate the dying love of their Lord, a
divine peace filled the hearts of Lucia and her nurse. Arrayed in
spotless robes of white, emblematical of the new spiritual life upon
which they had entered, they stood in the centre of that little flock,
into whose society they had just been admitted, receiving the blessings
and congratulations of their brethren. A holy light shone in the
upraised eyes of Lucia, no longer gleaming with the wild enthusiasm of
the heathen priestess, but full of calm, heavenly joy. No earthly
thought, no earthly feeling, intruded on these hallowed moments. Even
Adonijah was forgotten. Love divine filled and possessed her heart. This
rapture seemed to absorb her being for a time, but when burst from that
assembly of true worshippers the lofty hymn of thanksgiving, it found
words and rose to heaven in a sweet song of praise. At the instant these
triumphant hallelujahs echoed through that subterranean temple of the
Lord, a band of armed men rushed in, headed by Julius Claudius,
Nymphidius Sabinus, and Adonijah, and, advancing into the circle in
which the neophytes stood, confronted them with menacing looks and
threatening gestures.
For a moment the timid woman prevailed over the saint and heroine, and
Lucia Claudia uttered a thrilling cry of agonized amazement as her eye
fell on Adonijah. He had betrayed her—he for whom she would have died,
for whom she would have given up all but her hope in Christ. A pang,
intenser than that which separates soul and body, pierced the maiden’s
heart, as she slowly turned her eyes upon her lover with reproachful
tenderness. From that glance of love and sorrow he shrank away, unable
to sustain the cruel part he had chosen, or to look upon her whom he had
betrayed.
Nymphidius laid his hand upon his victim’s arm, but she shrank from his
touch with a gesture indicative of so much horror, that he resigned her
to her brother, of whose presence she till then was not aware. The sight
of him inspired her with some confidence, and, throwing herself upon his
neck, she uttered the most pathetic entreaties for the lives of those
whom her rash confidence in Adonijah had put in such fearful jeopardy.
He coldly replied “that he could only answer for her safety, the fate of
those to whom she had united herself being in the hands of Nymphidius.”
She fixed her imploring eyes on the face of the Præfect, but no mercy
could be traced on his stern, collected features. His only answer was a
sign to the soldiers to put the Christians to the sword, who, gathering
round their Bishop, silently awaited their doom. Breaking from the arm
of Julius, Lucia threw herself at the feet of Nymphidius, and besought
him “to have mercy on the little flock” with streaming eyes and
passionate entreaties.
“Become my wife,” said the Præfect, in a low but distinct voice, “and I
will not slay these Christians.” She started from her knees with
aversion and loathing on her countenance. “Remember, Lucia Claudia, that
the alternative is death. Even the friendship between me and your
brother cannot save you from the penalty you have incurred. Young,
beautiful, rich, noble, and beloved as you are, can you prefer death to
espousing a man who adores you?”
“I can die,” she replied—“it is not difficult for a Roman to die; but
these Christians, whom I have been the means of betraying, must they die
too?”
“My daughter,” rejoined the venerable Linus, advancing towards her with
dignity, “plead not for us; we are ready not only to be bound, but to
die for the Lord Jesus.”
“Father, I have brought these wolves upon you,” cried Lucia, wringing
her hands; “it is I who have unwittingly betrayed my brethren;” and
again she renewed her supplications to the Præfect on her knees.
“I have named the conditions,” was all the reply he deigned to return to
her entreaties.
Lucia hesitated; the Bishop marked the struggle of her soul. “God can
defend his own Church; yea, if it be His will, He also can deliver it
out of this impending danger. Daughter, ‘be not unequally yoked with an
unbeliever.’ We are all baptized into one faith, let us glorify God by
dying together.”
“In flames, in tortures!” exclaimed Nymphidius, elevating his voice till
the vaulted roof re-echoed with its terrific tones. “I tell ye that the
horrors of Nero’s first persecution of this vile sect shall be forgotten
in the tremendous vengeance of his second.[12] Maiden, do you remember
the illumination of the imperial gardens?” continued he, bending down to
the suppliant, who still grasped his knees. He felt the shudder that
thrilled through her frame at the ghastly recollections he had called
up.
“We must abide it as best we may,” murmured she. “My own sufferings I
can endure with constancy, but how shall I see those my rashness has
brought down on these?”
“I swear to thee, most fair and noble lady, that not a hair of their
heads shall perish for this cause. Yes, Lucia Claudia, by thyself I
swear not only to preserve, but to protect them. Nay more, thou shalt be
free to follow this strange superstition, wild and mischievous though it
be, so that you promise to become my wife.”
“I promise,” she faintly uttered, and sank in a swoon at his feet, a
swoon so death-like, that when the Præfect raised her up, he feared that
he held only an inanimate corpse in his arms.
In this state the affianced bride of Nymphidius Sabinus was borne into
her brother’s house. In this sad condition Adonijah beheld the unhappy
victim of his bigotry—her to whom he had professed the most passionate
love. As the females of the household removed her veil to give her air,
her bright ringlets, those ringlets lately hidden beneath the head-dress
of the vestal, fell round her face, giving to its paleness a more
death-like character. Her whole figure, indeed, enveloped in the white
robe of the neophyte, resembled more a statue of Parian marble than
living flesh. Convulsive starts and deep sighs alone betrayed that she
still breathed and suffered. What a sight was this for a lover to
behold! Adonijah stood contemplating his work for a moment, then rushed
forth in an agony of remorse.
The familiar voices round her recalled the unfortunate lady to life; she
opened her eyes, raised herself from the encircling arms of Nymphidius
with an air of ineffable dignity, and, taking the arm of Cornelia,
retired to her own apartment.
Here, to the surprise of her brother and Cornelia, she shook off the
anguish that oppressed her soul. It was more than Roman fortitude she
displayed, it was the courage and resolution of a Christian. Throughout
that trying night she watched and prayed for strength to endure the
living martyrdom before her, and when the morning came she was resigned
and tearless. Julius fixed an early day for their return to Rome and her
espousals; she did not oppose him, but meekly besought him to permit her
to keep her own apartment, with Cornelia for her sole companion, till
the hour when Nymphidius would come to claim her promise.
The fatal day arrived, and the nuptials of Lucia Claudia were celebrated
with all the magnificence befitting her high rank, as well as with those
heathen rites her Christian profession taught her to consider impious.
Arrayed in saffron robes, and splendidly adorned with jewels, the bride,
unveiled, sat, according to custom, in the centre of her own
sitting-room to receive the farewell visits of her relations, and the
congratulations of her friends. The slaves of both sexes were freely
permitted to take their leave and pay their compliments on this
occasion. Adonijah, unable to absent himself, came with them, resolving
at first to avoid looking at the betrothed of Nymphidius, till a fatal
curiosity attracted his attention to her. Surrounded by the great and
gay, Lucia Claudia, among her maidens, looked pale and victim-like, till
she saw Adonijah, when a burning blush flushed her cheeks, and tears
rushed to her eyes; then, restraining her feelings, though with effort,
she became tintless as before. She received the presents lavished upon
her without any of that pleasure so naturally manifested by the bride
about to be united to the object of her choice. This ceremony gone
through, she sat still and motionless as a statue till the steps of the
bridegroom and his train were heard approaching, then her heart beat
audibly, and she turned one last, last look upon her lover; that look
expressed all her love, regret, and despair. This lingering tenderness
still clung to the bosom of the injured maid, notwithstanding her
wrongs, and filled it with tenfold bitterness. Nymphidius approached to
lead her to the temple of Juno Juga, whither all present followed the
ill-matched pair.
Adonijah stood by during the ceremony that united Lucia Claudia to the
object of her detestation. He saw her given, with abhorrent heathen
rites, to another. He beheld her shudder while the priest placed the
vervain garland and nuptial veil upon her brow, and the ring on her
finger; for he knew and felt that she loved him alone, cruel and
treacherous as he was, even while giving her hand to his rival.
Adorned with all the insignia of marriage, the bride sustained her
firmness till the hour arrived when Nymphidius and Julius raised her in
their arms, according to custom, to bear her to her future home. Then
her constancy appeared to forsake her, for her struggles were real, and
her cries expressed the genuine character of her despair. Far above the
Epithalamium they were heard, and she was borne over the threshold with
actual, not counterfeited, violence, so deep was the feeling of
abhorrence with which she regarded the man to whom she had just given
her hand.[13]
The nuptials of Lucia Claudia with Nymphidius was the result of
Adonijah’s treachery, but such had not been his intention. To destroy
the Christians, and prevent her from receiving baptism, was his motive
in betraying her retreat to Julius. That discovery threw her into the
arms of his rival. The thought was like fire to his proud heart, and a
burning fever seized his brain, and before he recovered she had been
many weeks a wife.
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[12] See Appendix, Note VI.
[13] The Roman bride was carried into her bridegroom’s house with
counterfeited violence, in remembrance of the manner in which the Sabine
virgins had been forcibly wedded by her Roman ancestors.