She would do anything short of taking the Cæsar Domitian as her husband in place of him to whom she was bound by the most sacred ties,—anything short of that to save the life of Lamia.
The struggle in her bosom was terrible; her head spun, she tried to speak but could frame no words.
She sought some guidance in Lamia’s eyes, but her own swam with tears, and she could not read what he would advise.
“My child,” said her mother, “of course it is all very sad, and that sort of thing—but it is and must be so. If a wilful girl will not be brought to reason in any other way—well, it is a pity.”
Domitian turned to Domitia.
“His life is in your power,” said he. “He has insulted me before the Conscript Fathers, and is under arrest. I have brought him hither—to die. But I give his life to you on the one condition that you allow divorce to be pronounced between you and him, and that in his place you accept me.”
Domitia turned her face away.
“So be it,” said he. “Surgeon, open his veins.”
With a slash of the razor across the arm at the fold, an artery was severed, and the black blood spurted forth.
Uttering a cry of horror, Domitia battled with those who held her, to reach and clasp her husband.