CHAPTER XVI.
“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.