Domitia
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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.
“Cut the other arm,” commanded the prince, “then cast him into the bath.”
“I yield,” gasped Domitia, burying her face in her hands and sinking to her knees.
“Then bind up his wound, and let him go!”
“Destiny must be fulfilled,” said Elymas who stood behind. “You were born for the purple.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
INTERMEZZO
The dramatic composer has this great advantage over the novelist, that when he has to allow for a certain amount of time, – it may be for years – to elapse between the parts of his play, he lowers the curtain, the first or second act is concluded, ices, oranges are taken round in the stalls; the orchestra strikes up an overture, the gentlemen retire to the promenade gallery for a cigar, and the ladies discuss their acquaintances, and the toilette of those in the boxes, after having explored the theatre with their glasses.
At Munich and Bayreuth, at the performance of Wagner’s operas, the space allowed between the acts is sufficient for a walk and for a meal. Thus the lapse of time between the parts of a drama is given a real expression, and the minds of those who have followed the first part of the story are prepared to accept a change in the conditions of the performers, such as could be brought about solely by the passage of time.
But a novelist has no such assistance, he is not able to produce such an illusion; even when his story appears in a serial, he is without this advantage, for the movement of his tale, when it is rapid, is artificially delayed by the limitations laid down by the editors of the magazines, and the space allotted to him, and when he does require a pause to allow for the gliding away of a certain number of years, that pause consists of precisely the same number of days as intervened in the serial publication, between chapters in which the action should have been continuous.
The writer must, therefore, throw himself on the indulgence of the reader, and plead to be allowed like a Greek chorus to stand forward and narrate what has taken place, during a period of time concerning which he proposes to pass over without detailed account, before he resumes the thread of his narrative.
When Vespasian was hailed Emperor by the troops he was aged sixty-one, and none supposed that his reign would be long. He associated his eldest son Titus with him in government, but would not allow the younger, Domitian, any power.
When the Emperor reached the capital, he learned the misuse Domitian had made of that which he had arrogated to himself, or which had been granted to him by the Senate, in his father’s absence. The old Emperor was vastly displeased at the misconduct of his younger son, and would perhaps have dealt severely with him, had he not been dissuaded from so doing by Titus, who pointed out, that as he himself had no son, in all probability Domitian would at some time succeed to the purple.
The young man, kept in the background, not even allowed the command in any military expedition, carefully watched and restrained from giving vent to his natural disposition, chafed at his enforced inactivity, and at the marked manner in which he was set behind his elder brother, a man who, by the capture of Jerusalem, had gained a name, and had attached the soldiery to him. Domitian was known to the military only by his abortive attempt to pluck the laurels in Germany from the brow of his kinsman Cerealis, for the adornment of his own head.
Domitian was granted none of the titles that indicated association in the Empire. He was not suffered to take part in public affairs. His insolence in neglecting the duties of prætor of the city, as beneath his dignity, was punished in this manner. When Titus celebrated his triumph after the Jewish war, with unusual magnificence, he and his father rode in chariots of state, but Domitian was made to follow on horseback. When Vespasian and his eldest son showed themselves in public, they were carried on thrones, whereas Domitian was made to attend in the rear in a litter.
The envious, ambitious young prince, under this treatment was driven to wear a mask, and he affected a love of literature, and indifference to the affairs of state. Titus, who knew less of him than his father, was deceived, but Vespasian was too well aware of the radically evil heart of his younger son to trust him in any way.
Domitia was unable to escape from compulsary association with this imperial cub. Vespasian was unwilling to undo the past, and have the scandal raked up again, and public attention called to it. The minds of the volatile Romans had forgotten the circumstances and were occupied with new matters of gossip. Domitian married Domitia Longina, and the old Emperor after some consideration concluded that she should remain his wife.
But the relations between her and the prince were strained. She hated him for what he had done, and she made no attempt to affect a liking she did not feel.
Lamia remained unmarried; he had cared for no other woman, and he felt that there was not to be found one who could ever be to him what he had hoped Domitia would have proved.
Once Titus asked him his reason for not marrying.
“Why do you inquire?” said Lamia, with a bitter smile, “do you also wish to carry off my wife?”
On the death of the old Emperor, Titus succeeded without any difficulties being raised. His father had already associated him in the Empire and had gradually transferred the conduct of affairs to his hands.
Hitherto the brothers had lived on very good terms with each other, at all events in appearance, and Domitian had been sufficiently prudent to veil his jealousy of Titus, who had shown himself kindly disposed towards his younger brother.
On the accession of Titus, Domitian hoped to be associated with him in government in the same manner as Titus had been with his father. In this he was disappointed, his disappointment got the better of his prudence, and he declared that his brother had falsified the will of Vespasian, who had divided the power equally between them.
On the first day of his reign, Titus designated Domitian as his successor, but he allowed him no independent power; and the young prince at once involved himself in intrigues and sought to rouse the troops to revolt, and to proclaim him in place of Titus.
The condition of Domitia would have been more intolerable than it was, but that Vespasian, up to his death, retained his younger son about his person, in Rome, and it was but rarely that the prince was able to escape to his villa, at Albanum, where Domitia remained in seclusion. And his visits there were not only few and far between, but also brief.
He was in bad humor when there, at liberty to vent his irritation at the manner in which he was treated by his father, and the behavior towards him of Domitia was not calculated to dispel his vapors.
A considerable change had come over her face. The expression had altered; it had been full of sweetness, and the muscles had been flexible. Now it was hard-set and stern.
Domitian cursed her for the fascination she still exercised over him. It was perhaps her unyielding temper, her openly expressed scorn, and her biting sarcasms which stung him to maintain his grip on her, knowing that this was to her torture. Yet her beauty exercised over him a hold from which he could not escape. His feelings towards her were a mixture of passionate admiration and savage resentment. From every one else he met with adulation, or at least respect, from her neither. His will was a law to a legion of sycophants, to her it was something she seemed to find a pleasure in defying.
Domitia nursed her resentment, and this soured her nature and reflected itself in her features.
In the long Chiaramonte Gallery of the Vatican Museum is an exquisite and uninjured bust of Domitia Longina as a girl; the face is one that holds the passer-by, it is so sweet, so beautiful, so full of a glorious soul.
In the Florence Gallery is one of the same woman after Domitian had snatched her away from Lamia, and hidden her in his Alban villa. Lovely the face is still, but the beautiful soul has lost its light, the softness has gone out of the face, and the shadow of a darkened life broods over it.
At Albanum the solitary Domitia had the satisfaction of being attended by her servant Euphrosyne, and the faithful Eboracus was also allowed to be there as her minister.
She occasionally visited her mother in Rome, but the chasm between them widened. Duilia could not understand her daughter’s refusal to accept the inevitable and failure to lay hold of her opportunities, and, as she termed it, “eat her rat.” The older Duilia grew, the less inclined she was to acknowledge her age, and the more frivolous and scheming she became. She was never weary of weaving little webs of mystery and of contriving plans; and the initiating of all these was a supper. She was well off, liked ostentation, yet was withal of a frugal mind, and never ordered costly dishes, or broached her best wine without calculation that they would lead to valuable results.
It was possible that Vespasian might have interfered in favor of Domitia, had he been made to understand how strongly she disliked the union, but Domitia herself was never able to obtain an interview with the aged Emperor, and Duilia took pains to assure him that the marriage had been contracted entirely with her approval, that the union with Lamia had been entered on without feeling on either side, in obedience to an expressed wish of Corbulo before his death, and that her daughter was quite content to be released.
The period was not one in which the personal feelings of a girl were counted as deserving of much thought, certainly not of being considered by an Emperor, and Vespasian took no steps to relieve Domitia. Titus was better aware of the facts, and had some notion of the wrench it had been to the young married people, but he was not desirous of having the matter reopened. It would not conduce to the credit of the Flavian house, and that was in his eyes a matter of paramount consideration – as the process of deification of the Flavians had already begun.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I.
AN APPEAL
“What can I do for thee, Domitia?” asked Titus, who was pacing the room; he halted before the young wife of his brother, who was kneeling on the mosaic floor.
She had taken advantage of her introduction into the Imperial palace to make an appeal to Titus, now Emperor. She had not been allowed to appear there during the reign of Vespasian.
Titus was a tall, solidly built man, with the neck of a bull; he had the same vulgarity of aspect that characterized both his father and brother, and which was also conspicuous in his daughter Julia. The whole Flavian family looked, what it was, of ignoble origin, – there was none of the splendid beauty that belonged to Augustus, and to the Claudian family that succeeded. Their features were fleshy and coarse, their movements without grace, their address without dignity.
If they attempted to be gracious, they spoiled the graciousness by clumsiness in the act; if they did a generous thing, it carried its shadow of meanness trailing behind it.
Titus had not borne a good character before his elevation to the purple. He had indulged in coarse vices, had shown himself callous toward human suffering. Yet there was in his muddy nature a spark of good feeling, a desire to do what was right, a rough sense of justice and much family affection.
It was a disappointment to him that he had but one child, a daughter, a gaunt, stupid girl, big-boned, amiable and ugly.
He knew that Domitian, his younger brother, would in all probability succeed him, but he also was childless. Next to him, the nearest of male kin, were the sons of that Flavius Sabinus, who had been butchered by the Vitellians, and their names were Sabinus and Clemens.
The former was much liked by the people, he was an upright grave man. The second was regarded with distrust, as a Christian. It was not the fact of his following a strange religion that gave offence. To that Romans were supremely indifferent, but that which they could not understand and allow was a man withdrawing himself from the public service, the noblest avocation of a man, because he scrupled to worship the image of the Emperor, and to swear by his genius. They regarded this as a mere excuse to cover inertness of character, and ignobility of mind.
For the like reason, Christians could not attend public banquets or go to private entertainments as the homage done to the gods, and the idolatrous offerings associated with them, stood in their way. The profession of Christianity, accordingly, not only debarred from the public service, but interfered with social amenities. Such withdrawal from public social life the Romans could not understand, and they attributed this conduct to a morbid hatred entertained by the Christians for their fellow-men.
The public shows were either brutal or licentious. The Christians equally refused to be present at the gladiatorial combats and at the coarse theatrical representations of broad comedy and low buffoonery. This also was considered as indicative of a gloomy and unamiable spirit.
There were indeed heathen men who loathed the frightful butchery in the arena, such was the Emperor Tiberius, – and Pliny in his letters shows us that to some men of his time they were disgusting, but nevertheless they attended these exhibitions, as a public duty, and contented themselves with expressing objection to them privately. The objection was founded on taste, not principle, and therefore called for no public expression of reprobation.
Clemens was quite out of the question as a successor. If he was too full of scruple to take a prætorship, he was certainly unfit to be an emperor. Not so Flavius Sabinus his elder brother. Him accordingly, Domitian looked upon with jealousy.
“What can I do for thee?” again asked Titus, and his heavy face assumed a kindly expression; “my child, I know that thou hast had trouble and art mated to a fellow with a gloomy, uncertain humor; but what has been done cannot be undone – ”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Domitia, “it is that I desire; let me be separated from him. I never, never desired to leave my true husband, Lamia, I was snatched away by violence – let me go back.”
“What! to Lamia! That will hardly do. Would he have thee?”
“Tainted by union with Domitian, perhaps not!” exclaimed Domitia fiercely. “Right indeed – he would not.”
“Nay, nay,” said Titus, his brow clouding, “such a word as that is impious, and in another would be treason. Domitia, you have a bitter tongue. I have heard my brother say as much. But I cannot think that Lamia would dare to receive thee again after having been the wife of a Flavian prince.”
Domitia’s lip curled, but she said nothing. These upstart Flavians made a brag of their consequence.
“Then,” said she, “let me go to my old home at Gabii. I have lived in seclusion enough at Albanum to find Gabii in the current of life – and my mother and her many friends will come there anon. Let me go. Let there be a divorce – and I will go home and paddle on the lake and pick flowers and seek to be heard of no more.”
“It would not do for you and Lamia to be married again. It would be a political error; it might be dangerous to us Flavians.”
“I should have supposed, in your brand-new divinity that a poor mouse like myself could not have scratched away any of the newly-laid-on gold leaf.”
“Domitia,” said Titus, who had resumed his walk, “be careful how you let that tongue act – it is a file, it has already removed some of the gilding.”
A smile broke out on his face at first inclined to darken.
“There! There!” said he, laughing; “I am not a fool. I know well enough what we were, as I feel what we have become. Caligula threw mud, the mud of Rome, into the lap of my grandfather, because he had not seen to the efficient scouring of the streets. It was ominous – the soil of Rome has been taken away from the divine race of Julius – and has been cast into the lap of us money-lenders, pettyfogging attorneys of Reate. Well! the Gods willed it, Domitia – it is necessary for us to make a display.”
“Push, as my mother would say.”
“Well – push – as you will it. But, understand, Domitia, though I am not ignorant of all this, I don’t like to have it thrown in my teeth; and my brother is more sensitive to this than myself. Domitia, I will do this for you. I will send for him, and see if I can induce him to part from you. I mistrust me,” – Titus smiled, looked at Domitia, with one finger stroked her cheek, and said, – “By the Gods! I do not wonder at it. I would be torn by wild horses myself rather than abandon you, had I been so fortunate – ”
“Sire, so wicked – ”
“Well, well! you must excuse Domitian. Love, they say, rules even the Gods, and is stronger than wine to turn men’s heads.”
He clapped his hands. A slave appeared. “Send hither the Cæsar,” he ordered. The slave bowed and withdrew.
Domitian entered next moment. He must have been waiting in an adjoining apartment.
“Come hither, brother,” said Titus. “I have a suppliant at my feet, and what suppose you has been her petition?”
Domitian looked down. He had a pouting disdainful lip, a dogged brow, and eyes in which never did a sparkle flash; but his face flushed readily, not with modesty, but shyness or anger.
“Brother,” said Domitian, “I know well enough at what she drives. From the moment, the first moment I knew her, she has treated me to quip and jibe and has sought to keep me at a distance. I know not whether she use a love-philtre so as to hold me? I know not if it be her very treatment of me which makes me love her the more. Love her! It is but the turning of a hair whether I love or hate her most. I know what is her petition without being told, and I say – I refuse consent.”
“Listen to what I have to propose,” said Titus, “and do not blurt out your family quarrels before I speak about them. It is not I only, but all Rome, that knows that your life together is not that of Venus’s doves. It is unpleasant to me, it detracts from the dignity of the Flavian family” – he glanced aside at his sister-in-law, and his lips quivered, “that this cat-and-dog existence should become the gossip of every noble house, and a matter of tittle-tattle in every wine-shop. Make an end to it and repudiate her.”
Domitian kept his eyes on the floor. Domitia looked at him for his answer with eagerness. He turned on her with a vulgar laugh and said: —
“Vixen! I see thee – naught would give thee greater joy than for me to assent. I should see thee skip for gladness of heart, as I have never seen thee move thy little feet since thou hast been with me! I should hear thee laugh – and I have heard no sound save flout from thee as yet. I should see a sun dance in thine eyes, that perpetually lower or are veiled in tears. Is it not so?” – He paused and looked at her with truculence in his face – “and therefore, for that alone, I will not consent.”
“Listen further to me, Domitian,” said Titus; “I have a proposition to make. Separate from Domitia, send her back – ”
“What, into the arms of Lamia?”
“No, to Gabii. She shall be guarded there, she shall not remarry Lamia.”
“I shall take good heed to that.”
“Hear me out, Domitian. I have but one child, Julia. The voice of the people has proclaimed itself well pleased with our house. We have given to Rome peace and prosperity at home, and victory abroad. I believe that there are few who regard me unfavorably. But it is not so with thee. Thy folly, thy disorders, thy violence, before our father came to Rome, have not been forgotten or forgiven, and Senate and people look on thee with mistrust. I will give thee Julia to wife. It is true she is thy niece – but since Claudius took Agrippina – ”
“Thanks, Titus, I have no appetite for mushrooms.”8
“Tut! you know Julia, a good-hearted jade.”
“I will not consent,” said Domitian surlily.
“Hear me out, brother, before making thy decision. If thou wilt not take Julia, then I shall give her to another – ”
“To whom?” asked Domitian looking up. He at once perceived that a danger to himself lurked behind this proposal. The husband of Julia might contest his claims to the throne, should the popularity of Titus grow with years, and his own decline.
“I shall give her to our cousin, Flavius Sabinus.”
Domitian was silent, and moved his hands and feet uneasily.
Looking furtively out of the corners of his eyes, he saw a flash of hope in those of Domitia.
He held up his head, and looking with leaden eyes at his brother, said: —
“Still I refuse.”
“The consequences – have you considered them?”
Domitian turned about, and made a tiger-like leap at Domitia and catching her by her shoulders said: —
“I hate her. I will risk all, rather than let her go free.”
CHAPTER II.
THE FISH
Domitian had been accorded by his brother a portion of the palace of Tiberius on the Palatine Hill, that was crowded with imperial residences; and Domitia had been brought there from Albanum.
She was one day on the terrace. The hilltop was too much encumbered with buildings to afford much space for gardens, but there were platforms on which grew cypresses, and about the balustrades roses twined and poured over in curtains of flower. Citrons and oleanders also stood in tubs, and against the walls glistened the burnished leaves of the pomegranate; the scarlet flowers bloomed in spring and the warm fruit ripened till it burst in the hot autumn.
Domitia, seated beside the balustrade, looked over mighty Rome, the teeming forum, roofs with gilded tiles of bronze, lay below her, flashing in the sun, and beyond on the Capitol, white as snow, but glinting with gold, was the newly completed temple of Jupiter, rebuilt in greater splendor than before since the disastrous fire.
The hum of the city came up to her as the murmur of a sea, not a troubled one, but a sea of a thousand wavelets trifling with the pebbles of a beach, and dancing in and out among the teeth of a reef; a hum not unlike that of the bees – but somewhat louder, and pitched on a lower note.
Domitia paid no attention to the scene, nor to the sounds, she was engaged with her jewel-box, that she had brought forth into the sun, in order that she might count over her treasures.
At a respectful distance sat Euphrosyne spinning.
Domitia had some Syrian filagree gold work in her hand – it formed a decoration for the head, to be fastened by two pins; the heads were those of owls with opals for eyes.
She laid it aside and looked at her rings and brooches. There was one of the latter, a cameo given her by her mother, of coral of two hues, a Medusa’s head, a beautiful work of art. Then she took up a necklace of British pearls from the Severn, she twisted it about her arm and lovely were the pure pearls against her delicate flesh, – like the dainty tints on the rose and white coral of the brooch she had laid aside.
She replaced the chain, and took up a cornelian fish.
“Euphrosyne,” said Domitia, “come hither! observe this fish. Thy sister gave it me the day I was married, but alack! it brought me no luck. Think you it is an omen of ill? But Glyceria would not have given me one such.”