“When died she?”—BYRON.
“From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome
I beheld thee, O Zion! when rendered to Rome:
’Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.”
BYRON.
The report of Nymphidius’ death reached Julius Claudius the following
day. He became alarmed and apprehensive for his sister’s safety, yet did
not possess sufficient courage or brotherly love to go to her himself.
To avoid the danger incidental to facing a popular tumult, and to afford
Lucia Claudia the succour and support she needed, he resolved to send
Adonijah to Rome to bring her to his home. Accordingly the Hebrew
departed in company with several slaves and gladiators belonging to the
household. He found the metropolis of the world in a state of anarchy
and confusion that defies description; he saw the dead body of
Nymphidius dragged about the streets; it was covered with wounds, and
the stern features bore the same expression of sullen pride and
undaunted resolution that they had worn in life. The ferocity of the
unclosed eye told that he had died sword in hand, contending with
unequal numbers. “How mutable is fortune!” thought the Hebrew. “But
yesterday, and this man was a consul and præfect of the Prætorian camp,
and in the full lust of unbridled power was acting tragedies that made
men regret the rule of Nero; now his cold remains are wantonly defaced
by those very people who feared him yesterday, and paid him almost
divine honours. O fickle, unbelieving crowd, when shall ye be swept away
before the avenging breath of the Messiah?”
The house of Nymphidius was surrounded by soldiers, who refused
admittance to Adonijah; the promise of a donative in the name of Julius
Claudius, and a few coins thrown among them as an earnest, induced them
to give the party admission. What a scene of desolation presented itself
to his view! The valuable movables defaced and removed—torn
raiment—pavements that were stained with the marks of recent debauchery
and recent slaughter. In Lucia’s apartment a scattered lock of
sun-bright hair, and some vellum scrolls deeply stained with blood, told
a tale of terrible import; a dagger still red with slaughter lay near.
The victim was gone, but these evidences revealed her fate. He caught up
the dagger, determined to sheathe it to the hilt in the bosom of the
murderer of Lucia. Without a tear he gathered up the relic of the woman
he had loved, enveloped it in the parchments, and put it in his bosom.
Rushing forth he demanded in a fierce voice, “What had become of the
wife of Nymphidius?” She had not been seen, she was doubtless dead; but
all denied having been actors in that horrid deed. He showed the dagger,
and it was recognised as having been worn by Marcus, the freedman of
Nymphidius, who was dying of his wounds in an adjoining apartment.
Thither Adonijah repaired to learn the fatal truth. The film of death
had gathered over the eyes of the expiring man; the centurion thought he
would never speak again. Regardless of the pain he was inflicting,
Adonijah thundered out the name of “Lucia Claudia;” he would have
demanded the particulars of her murder, but memory at this agitating
instant failed him, and he relapsed into his native tongue, unable to
form a sentence in the Latin language, familiar as it was now become.
The centurion guessed what he would ask, and the dying man replied to
his questions in the slow laboured accents of death: “When my master was
quitting his house for the last time, he called me to him and said,
‘Marcus, if no message comes from me in the course of an hour, slay my
wife without delay,’ I stared and thought he had lost his senses, but he
sternly repeated his words, adding, ‘If you neither hear from nor see me
in that time, do as I bid you, or your life shall answer for your
disobedience; remember, it is Nymphidius Sabinus who now governs Rome.’
This I knew to be true; but I was sorry for the lady. I knew not his
reasons then, but I know them now; he was determined that she of whom he
was so infinitely fond should not survive him if he fell.” The dying man
gasped as if in mortal pain.
“Proceed, if you can, and briefly too,” remarked the centurion.
“The time elapsed, the hour was long past, and still no message came
from the camp. I went to the noble lady, I told her all, she pleaded for
her life, I dared not listen.” The narrator paused, his breath came and
went, but he collected his fainting powers: “I seized her by her long
hair, and aimed a blow at her throat; but——” here the strong pangs of
death silenced the speaker, a livid shade came over his features, a
torrent of blood issued from his mouth, and he died without concluding
his story. Enough, however, was told to prove that the cruel jealousy of
Nymphidius Sabinus had pursued his wife beyond the grave.
Adonijah listened to this recital with rigid and immovable features; the
slaves who loved Lucia Claudia raised a loud lamentation. He was
stunned, stupefied, and remained in the same attitude of intense
attention. His companions, wishing to offer the last rites to the
remains of the beautiful and unfortunate Lucia Claudia, instituted a
rigorous search for her body, but in vain. Cornelia was found dead in
her own chamber, but as no marks of violence were discovered on her
person, they supposed she had died from fright. The populace had glutted
their fury on the household of Nymphidius. The innocent and guilty died
together, with the exception of some few individuals who happened to be
absent at the moment of their entrance. The slaves of Julius supposed
that Marcus had conveyed away the corpse of his victim, and loudly
lamented that a daughter of the noble house of Claudii should pass
unhonoured and unsepulchred to the grave in the flower of her youth and
beauty. Adonijah, who remembered that she was a Christian, supposed that
the remains of the murdered Roman lady had been consigned to the gloomy
caverns of the Arenaria.
From that hour a deeper gloom darkened the features of the Hebrew slave.
He considered himself as the cause of Lucia’s miserable wedded life and
death. Remorse, deep, vain remorse, filled his breast with thorns.
Bigotry no longer made a base action appear heroic. Now he would rather
have seen her a Christian than beheld the pale, bleeding phantom his
conscience raised up. She, gentle, compassionate, and good, had been
wedded to the cruel Nymphidius; and, still the victim of his barbarous
love, had died by the hand of violence. He wished, he longed to die with
her; but grief, that bows surely but slowly the fragile form of woman,
vainly contends with the majestic strength and iron nerves of man.
Galba ascended the throne of the Cæsars, but his plainness and frugality
disgusted a people inebriate with luxury. The severity of his
punishments deservedly excited the popular indignation. Nor could his
military virtues atone for his avarice; he fell after a short reign of a
few months by the hands of the soldiers who had elevated him to the
imperial dignity. The death of the new emperor Otho, and the victory of
Vitellius, followed fast upon each other. The empire, torn with
contending factions, seemed dividing asunder. The plains of Italy were
deluged in blood, and the new master of the world, uniting in his own
person all the vices without the dignity of the Cæsars, soon gave his
fellow-citizens reason to repent the self-murder of Otho.
During all these revolutions and fierce contests for power, the Jewish
war was still continued by Vespasian; but the expectations of the
appearance of a deliverer grew stronger in the breasts of the lost house
of Israel, as their means of defence grew feebler. The prophecy, that
the ruler of the world should arise out of the land of Judea, was
prevalent throughout the empire. The Jews applied it to their expected
Messiah; the Romans, soon tired of the tyranny of Vitellius, to Flavius
Vespasian; the Christians alone understood it of the spiritual kingdom
of Christ. Adonijah hoped, expected, believed, that the hour was fast
approaching when his countrymen, headed by the Messiah in person, should
fulfil the ancient sacred oracles, and rule all nations. Meanwhile that
dear unforgotten country was waging a fierce war with the Roman legions.
Jerusalem, that holy city, still strove in vain to avert the awful doom
pronounced against her by the lips of that crucified King, whose eyes
had wept over her coming woes. Surrounded by a trench, and encompassed
about with Gentile armies, “the abomination of desolation stood where it
ought not to stand;” the noise of a host was around her sacred walls,
while within their guarded circle her guilty children waged a frantic
and more terrible war with each other. Famine, rapine, and murder were
preying on the vitals of the city; the Gentiles warred without the
gates. Adonijah feared that his countrymen were wasting in intestine
broils the golden opportunity the civil wars of Rome presented; but he
knew not that the Lord himself had sworn to destroy Jerusalem. The
captive believed that the Lord Jehovah would yet arise and miraculously
deliver the besieged city, as in the days of Hezekiah, and “with his own
right hand and holy arm get Himself the victory.”
For a time Julius Claudius figured at the court of the new emperor,
sharing in his gluttonous feasts and sottish revelries; but rumour
whispered ominous things of the instability of Vitellius’ government,
and the wary courtier retired in time to avoid the coming storm.
The strange fondness that makes us regard inanimate things with a
species of idolatry that have even touched those we love, made Adonijah
hoard with jealous care the last memorials of the dead Lucia—the fair
ringlet torn from her beloved head, the cruel dagger, even the vellum
scrolls containing the life of Him he deemed a false prophet, but whom
the Christian wife of Nymphidius had worshipped as a God. Curiosity
tempted him one day to unroll the sheets stained deeply with the
life-blood of his only love. By chance his eyes fell upon the section
containing the predicted woes of Jerusalem. To a candid and impartial
reader the events of the present times were so clearly marked out, that
nothing but the blindness of bigotry could have prevented him from
acknowledging that the prophecy was about to be fulfilled. The fanatic
zeal of Adonijah, and his detestation of the very name of Christianity,
came between him and conviction; he crushed the ominous record of coming
woe beneath his feet, and clung to the vain hope that Israel would yet
conquer and prevail.
The revolution that hurled the monster Vitellius from the throne, filled
Italy and Rome with slaughter; and the splendid military career of
Antonius Primus called Vespasian home to reign. Then the expectations of
Adonijah grew stronger, and, forgetting that the brave son filled the
father’s place, awaited the advent of the Messiah with enthusiastic and
unshaken faith. The despatches of Titus to the emperor and senate spoke
of the fall of Jerusalem as a certainty, but the Hebrew slave gathered
hope even from circumstances where others would have despaired.
Julius Claudius was not very well received by Vespasian, who despised
his effeminate habits and dissolute manners; nor was the Sybarite better
pleased with the rough, plain dealing of the veteran warrior whom the
army and people had elevated to the throne. He resolved to avoid the
court till the return of Titus, who in his dissipated youth had been his
intimate companion and friend.
The hues of autumn were beginning to embrown the woods of Italy, but the
heat of summer still lingered as loth to quit the plains. The excessive
warmth of the season induced the luxurious Julius to change the sultry
atmosphere of Rome for Tivoli, whose vicinity to the metropolis made it
a very desirable abode to a man who loved to hear all the gossip of the
court. An attempt to assassinate him was made by Tigranes at this place
while he was enjoying his afternoon repose. From this danger Adonijah,
who heard his cries, delivered him, by attacking the assassin, wounding,
and disarming him. Tigranes, who had loved Lucius Claudius, had
determined to revenge his death; and, as he lay mortally wounded on the
ground, boldly avowed his motive, reviling Adonijah for frustrating what
appeared to him an act of justice.
Adonijah was startled at the accusation. The countenance of Julius
confirmed, he thought, its truth. That tremor, that deadly paleness,
that cowering eye, looked like guilt. Scarcely could he restrain his
hand from plunging the dagger, yet reeking with the blood of Tigranes,
into the breast of the fratricide he had just preserved from a violent
death. From the promises, the profuse thanks of his master he turned
away with disgust. Julius read his feelings in his expressive face, and
hated him from that moment.
This incident gave Julius an aversion to Tivoli, and made him fix on
Tusculum for his permanent abode. Nothing could be more beautiful than
the situation of this villa; crowned by the dark woods of those
mountains from whose heights Hannibal first descried the towers of Rome,
adorned as it was by nature and art, and decorated by the effeminate but
tasteful hand of a master whose quick talents were all lent to the
service of luxury. The delicious coolness of this retreat restored the
drooping frame of the little Lucius to health, who had long pined for
the pure air of the country during his father’s abode in Rome. The
affection Adonijah felt for this charming child partook largely of the
paternal character, and he loved to trace in his open brow and sweet
pensive smile the looks of those who were then only ashes. He taught the
babe to worship the great Being he adored, and to repeat many a sweet
psalm and prayer in that tongue become as familiar to his infant lips as
his own native Latin. Dearly he loved the boy, and dearly was his love
returned by the lavish fondness of his pupil, who twined his feeble
innocence about his strength, and would not leave him for a single
moment. This fragile blossom, fair and evanescent as those sweet flowers
that bloom at morn only to die at eve, required the utmost care to
secure its frail existence. For some days the heats even approached
these mountain solitudes, and paled the new-blown roses on the cheek of
Lucius. The burning atmosphere of Rome seemed to breathe among these
rocks and vales. Not a breeze stirred the trees; the dark woods above
them, even the lighter foliage, drooped towards the earth, parched and
motionless; the very birds forgot to wander through the air, or sing,
for nature herself seemed asleep and silent. The sun, sinking beneath
clouds whose fantastic shapes rivalled the surrounding mountains,
foretold a coming storm. Reclining on a marble couch covered with soft
cushions, the voluptuous Julius Claudius in vain courted the approaches
of sleep. A young Greek slave stood near him agitating the air with a
plume of peacock’s feathers, another youth was singing to a lute touched
by no unskilful hand, to lull the Sybarite to repose, or at least to
please his ear. At a little distance stood the Hebrew slave; the young
son of Julius was sleeping on a cushion at his feet. But the eye of
Adonijah rested not upon the boy’s pale cheek, so lately the object of
his dearest solicitude; he was watching the dense thundercloud that hung
over the capital of the world, enveloping temple, column, and triumphal
arch in a dark shadow resembling a funeral pall. What thought suddenly
flushed the features of Adonijah, and flashed in his dark dilated orbs?
To him the hour of vengeance appeared nigh; the long-expected,
long-wished-for hour, destined to give destruction to the Romans and
deliverance to the children of his people. Doubtless the Lord of hosts
was about to overwhelm that proud seat of Gentile tyranny and sin, as
anciently He overthrew the accursed cities of the plain, leaving the
dead waveless sea to record the mighty miracle for ever. Suddenly the
death-like repose of nature was broken by a rushing wind—a hollow
sepulchral sound, as if from the bowels of the earth, that heaved and
yawned as if ready to sink beneath their feet. The forest trees bent to
the wild blast like saplings, the rocks rent; above and below the
dreadful thunders uttered their voices, while the heavens appeared on
fire. The affrighted slaves crowded about their master in fearful
expectation. The only persons who manifested no terror were Adonijah and
the young Lucius. The babe slept tranquilly, undisturbed by the din of
the fierce elements; the Hebrew stood proud and exulting like an
avenging spirit in the front of that alarmed assembly. He trembled not;
his figure seemed to rise to more majestic height, his dark locks
ruffled with the electric wind streamed back from his temples, giving a
wild grandeur to his whole figure. No sound issued from his parted lips,
but they moved as if his communings were with the awful Power he
mysteriously worshipped. The menial crew surveyed him with mixed
emotions of wonder and affright, almost imagining his spells had called
up the storm. There was a momentary pause, a sudden hush of jarring
sounds, an awful repose, and darkness that might be felt. At this
instant a party of Julius Claudius’ friends rushed into the villa,
exclaiming—
“Shelter, Julius Claudius, and a hearty welcome! the news we bring
deserves it. We were on our way from Rome to thee when the storm
overtook us.”
“’Tis an awful night,” returned their host, “and ye are dearly welcome
to me. My boy sleeps through it undisturbed and peacefully.”
“Surely in such a night as this,” cried Antonius, “Romulus became a
star. Old surly Vespasian may stand a chance of sparkling in the sky,
for the tempest hangs lowering over the palace of the Cæsars, as if it
meant to heap the building on his head. But you ask not of our tidings.”
“From Judea, I guess, and Titus is victorious.”
“Jerusalem has fallen,” continued Antonius, “and the temple of her God
is laid in ashes.”
A vivid blaze of lightning dispelled the darkness, and rendered every
object distinctly visible. Adonijah still stood erect, but his features
expressed amazement and despair. The flash was followed by a peal of
thunder that seemed as it would rend the rocks, and pile them in heaps
upon the shattering dwelling, as its long-reverberating echoes leapt
from cliff to cliff; but far above all, mingling its tones with the
dissonance of the warring elements, rose the cry that burst from the
lips of the Hebrew slave, like the wail of the guardian spirit of his
lost land.
The darkness, the tumult passed away, the moon broke forth in peaceful
beauty, shining over the desolated scene. Each cowering head was raised,
and then with superstitious awe every finger was pointed towards the
prostrate form of Adonijah, whom they believed had fallen a victim to
the avenging gods.
With terror in their looks the slaves raised the Hebrew from the ground;
they found him unscathed, unscorched, breathing, but scarcely alive,—no
victim to the infernal gods, though sinking beneath his own contending
feelings.
His eyes had never marked the bolt of heaven, his ear had never heard
the awful peal that blanched every cheek, unnerved every bosom; for the
deep knell of his native land had thrilled to his brain, and closed his
ear to all other sounds.
Gradually life resumed its functions, he arose and stood upon his feet;
but his look was wild, his answers to the questions curiosity or
compassion put to him unconnected and irrelevant, his reason appeared to
have forsaken him. The little Lucius, awake and fractious, stretched out
his arms towards his guardian friend from his father’s knee. He seemed
to remember the child; the only sign of consciousness or intelligence he
gave, was a look of affection directed towards him.
From that dreary night many weeks rolled by, and still the brain of
Adonijah was disturbed. He raved of his own land, but his accents no
longer flowed in the southern tongue. He imagined himself to be that
patriot seer who remained in Judea to wail and lament over the
desolations of the captive land. Stretched on the lonely heights, or
reclining beside the mountain-stream, the lamentations of the prophet
Jeremiah were the only sounds he uttered. Memory supplied no other idea
but this wild personification, the coinage of madness and misery.
As the mental malady of the unfortunate Hebrew was free from any
attempts to injure himself or others, he was permitted to wander at
will, unrestrained by bonds or watchful eyes; but, from the hour in
which he was struck with this worst of all calamities, the little Lucius
was separated from him. Sorely pined the bereaved child for his tutor,
while his cheek grew pale and hollow, and his mournful wails resounded
in every part of the villa.
One day, exhausted by his own ravings, Adonijah threw himself down by a
fountain in the garden, and a kind of stupor more resembling death than
sleep came over him, when by accident the infant Lucius perceived him,
and, springing from his nurse, ran up to his unfortunate friend, flung
his arms about his neck, and covered his face and hands with kisses,
calling him by all those endearing epithets infancy lavishes upon the
objects of its love. Those sweet silvery accents awoke an answering
chord in the breast of Adonijah. He pressed the boy to his sad bosom
again and again, returned his caresses with passionate fondness, and
bathed him with his burning tears. These tears were the first he had
shed since he had learned the fate of his country. Sanity returned.
Memory resumed her powers, and, though no beacon of hope arose to cheer
the dismal future or illumine the dim darkness that overshadowed Israel,
he looked upon the innocent creature before him, and felt that the love
of Lucius to him was like the fountain in the desert to the fainting
traveller.
From that day neither the father of the young Lucius nor his numerous
attendants could prevent his becoming the companion of the Hebrew slave.
Any attempt to debar him from the society of his dear preceptor
occasioned such gusts of passion on the part of the child, followed by
sickness and languor, that Julius was forced to acquiesce, lest he
should lose the sole scion of his noble house.
How fond, how proud, looked the boy while leading his melancholy friend
from place to place, guided by the dictates of his own playful caprice,
now sitting on Adonijah’s knee, twisting his ivory fingers in his jetty
ringlets, or flinging his own golden curls against them, and then
laughing at the contrast they presented as mirrored in the fountain at
their feet. When the dark mood stole over the senses of Adonijah, when
the spirit of melancholy madness threatened to return, the sweet face of
his young guardian would reflect his sadness, and he would repeat after
Adonijah those wailing Hebrew strains that fell ever and anon from his
lips. The sound of his own sacred language would recall Adonijah to
himself; he would wipe away the tears from the fair face of the child,
while a torrent of grief and tenderness flowed from his eyes; those
waters of affliction would ease the burning throbbing of his brain, and
the mental delusion for a season would pass away.
These fits of delirium became less frequent, and the attenuated form of
Adonijah gradually became rounded with health; he resumed his
instructions to Lucius, and his pen was again employed in his master’s
service. Still he perceived a marked change in Julius’ manner towards
him,—a failing of that respect he had hitherto received from his
household. He imputed it to the fallen state of his people; but his late
aberration was, in fact, the only cause.
Julius Claudius was much occupied in preparing a gladiatorial show, to
welcome Titus to Rome, where he, with many thousand captive Jews, was
hourly expected. Unfortunately Tullus, his favourite gladiator, was
attacked with a mortal malady, and died the day before that appointed
for the triumphal entry of the conqueror of Judea, leaving him without a
suitable successor. Suddenly he bethought himself of the courage and
former prowess of Adonijah, whose form combined at once all the
requisites of strength and beauty required to give distinction to the
combatant. His malady might return, and render him useless for anything;
on this occasion, at least, he would be invaluable to his master.
The summons of Julius brought Adonijah into his presence; the Roman
hesitated an instant before he dared to issue forth commands so contrary
to the last testament of his brother, so derogatory to his own honour.
“Hebrew,” at length he said in a tone of haughty authority, “I lost last
night Tullus, the most valiant of my gladiators, and I depute thee to
take his place. Thy strength and former feats in arms will make thee
more than a match for thy opponent, and, if thou conquer, freedom shall
be the certain guerdon of the victory.”
“Freedom!” retorted Adonijah with bitter scorn; “what is freedom now to
me? Judea is become ‘a waste howling wilderness,’ and ‘our holy, our
beautiful house, where our forefathers worshipped, is burnt up with
fire.’ The sacred vessels and the book of the law have become the spoil
of the Gentile conqueror, to whom the people of God have fallen into a
second and more terrible captivity. What can freedom offer in exchange
for the blood of a fellow-creature? Man, I will not do thy bidding: it
is written in the law, ‘Thou shalt do no murder.’”
“Slave,” replied Julius Claudius haughtily, “thy limbs are mine, and
unless thou obeyest my will, and fightest this battle with them, I will
rend them piecemeal.”
“Aye, do so—do anything, profligate, ungrateful wretch, but make
Adonijah the murderer thou art. Violate thine oath to Lucius—to the
virtuous, the valiant, and the wise, thy wicked arts destroyed. Reward
the man who saved thee from the just steel Tigranes drew against thee,
by slaying him in defiance of gratitude and honour.”
“I did not kill him; he died in his own bed!” replied Julius, hesitating
and confounded at the accusation. “Who said I poisoned him?”
“I demand the full performance of thy promise, and claim the freedom
bequeathed me by the noble Lucius Claudius. I did not mean to ask it at
thy hands, but now necessity compels me.”
“Thou didst promise to be a faithful servant to me,” continued the
quailed and humbled master.
“Man, I have been more than faithful; I have stood between thee and
death and hell. In services, but not in crimes, I will still yield
obedience to thy will. Go, seek some other Cain to do thy bidding.” With
these words the Hebrew slave quitted the presence of his master, with an
air of majesty that confounded the little-minded man who held the power
of life and death over him, unrestrained by law or principle.
“Proud Jew, I will crush thee yet!” muttered Julius. “Thou shalt view
the degradation of thy people, which to a soul like thine will be
bitterer than death. Patiently he will not see it, and a word or look
will do for him what I dare not do—will destroy him.”
That evening Julius Claudius and his household returned to Rome, where
magnificent preparations were making for the triumphant entry of
Vespasian and his son.
All the slaves received new habits suitable to their servile station;
Adonijah alone was given the costume of his own country; the
magnificence of the material evidently referring to his former
condition, rather than to his present circumstances. The malice of
Julius desired to make it evident to all men from what country his slave
derived his birth; a measure likely to draw down upon his person the
cruel mockeries of a people at once effeminate and barbarous, flushed
too with the success their armies had gained over the miserable remnant
of Israel.