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The
Burning of |
Table of Contents
Front Matter
The Emperor's Plan
The Hatching of a Plot
In the Circus
A New Ally
A Great Fire
Baffled
Flight
Pudens
An Imperial Musician
A Great Bribe
A Scapegoat
The Edict
In Hiding
The Persecution
What the Temple Servant Saw
What the Soldiers Thought
In the Prison
Surrender
Epicharis Acts
The Plot Thickens
Betrayed
Vacillation
A Last Chance
The Death of a Philosopher
The Fate of Subrius
A Place of Refuge
Meeting Again
Front Matter
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PREFATORY NOTE
THE Claudia of this story may be
identified with the British princess whose marriage to a certain Pudens is
celebrated by Martial in a pleasant little epigram, and, possibly, with the
Claudia whose name occurs among the greetings of
THE EMPEROR'S PLAN
[1] THE reigning successor of the great
Augustus, the master of some forty legions, the ruler of the Roman world, was
in council. But his council was unlike as possible to the assembly which one
might have thought he would have gathered together to deliberate on matters
that concerned the happiness, it might almost be said,
of mankind. Here were no veteran generals who had guarded the frontiers of the
Empire, and seen the barbarians of the East and of the West recoil before the
victorious eagles of Rome; no Governor of provinces, skilled in the arts of
peace; no financiers, practised in increasing the amount of the revenue without
aggravating the burdens that the tax-payers consciously felt; no philosophers
to contribute their theoretical wisdom; no men of business to give their master
the benefit of their practical advice. Nero had such men at his call, but he
preferred, and not perhaps without reason, to confide his schemes to very
different advisers. [2] There were three persons in the Imperial Chamber; or
four, if we are to reckon the page, a lad of singular beauty of form and
feature, but a deaf mute, who stood by the Emperor's couch, clad in a
gold-edged scarlet tunic, and holding an ivory-handled fan of peacock's
feathers, which he waved with a gentle motion.
Let me begin my description
of the Imperial Cabinet, for such it really was, with a portrait of Nero
himself.
The Emperor showed to
considerable advantage in the position which he happened to be occupying at the
time. The chief defects of his figure, the corpulence which his excessive
indulgence in the pleasures of the table had already, in spite of his youth, (Footnote: Nero was now (A.D. 64) twenty-seven years of
age.) increased to serious proportions, and the unsightly thinness of his lower
limbs, were not brought into prominence. His face, as far as beauty was
concerned, was not unworthy of an Emperor, but as the biographer of the Cæsars
says, it was "handsome rather than attractive." The features were
regular and even beautiful in their outlines, but they wanted, as indeed it
could not be but that they should want, the grace and charm in which the beauty
of the man's nature shines forth. The complexion, originally fair, was flushed
with intemperance. There were signs here and there of what would soon become
disfiguring blotches. The large [3] eyes that in childhood and boyhood had been
singularly clear and limpid were now somewhat dull and dim. The hair was of the
yellow hue that was particularly pleasing to an Italian eye, accustomed, for
the most part, to black and the darker shades of brown. Nero was particularly
proud of its color, so much so indeed, that, greatly to the disgust of more
old-fashioned Romans, he wore it in braids. On the whole his appearance, though
not without a certain comeliness and even dignity, was forbidding and sinister.
No one that saw him could give him credit for any kindness of heart or even
good nature. His cheeks were heavy, his chin square, his
lips curiously thin. Not less repulsive was the short bull neck. At the moment
of which I am writing his face wore as pleasing an expression as it was capable
of assuming. He was in high spirits and full of a pleased excitement. We shall
soon see the cause that had so exhilarated him.
Next to the Emperor, by
right of precedence, must naturally come the Empress,
for it was to this rank that the adventuress Poppæa had now succeeded in
raising herself. Her first husband had been one of the two commanders of the
Prætorian Guard; her second, Consul and afterwards Governor of a great
province, destined indeed himself to occupy for a few months the Imperial
throne; her third was the heir of Augustus and Tiberius, the last of the Julian
Cæsars. Older than the Emperor, for she had [4] borne a child to her first
husband more than twelve years before, she still preserved the freshness of
early youth. Something of this, perhaps, was due to the extreme care which she
devoted to her appearance, (Footnote: It is said
that she daily bathed in asses' milk) but more to the expression of innocence
and modesty which some strange freak of nature—for never surely did a woman's
look more utterly belie her disposition—had given to her countenance. To look at
her certainly at that moment, with her golden hair falling in artless ringlets
over a forehead smooth as a child's, her delicately arched lips, parted in a
smile that just showed a glimpse of pearly teeth, her cheeks just tinged with a
faint wild-rose blush, her large, limpid eyes, with just a touch of wonder in
their depths, eyes that did not seem to harbour an evil thought, any one might
have thought her as good as she was beautiful. Yet she was profligate,
unscrupulous, and cruel. Her vices had always been calculating, and when a
career had been opened to her ambition she let nothing stand in her way. Nero's
mother had perished because she barred the adventuress' road to a throne, and
Nero's wife soon shared the fate of his mother.
The third member of the
Council was, if it is possible to imagine it, worse than the other two. Nero
began his reign amidst the high hopes of his subjects, and for a few weeks, at
least, did not disappoint them, and Josephus speaks of Poppæa as a
"pious" woman; [5] but we hear nothing about Tigellinus that is not
absolutely vile. Born in poverty and obscurity, he had made his way to the bad
eminence in which we find him by the worst of arts. A man of mature age, for by
this time he must have numbered at least fifty years, he used his greater
experience to make the young Emperor even worse than his natural tendencies,
and all the evil influences of despotic power, would have made him. And he was
what Nero, to do him justice, never was, fiercely resentful of sarcasm and
ridicule. Nero suffered the most savage lampoons on his character to be
published with impunity, but no one satirized Tigellinus without suffering for
his audacity.
The scene of the Council
was a pleasant room in the Emperor's seaside villa at Antium. This villa was a
favourite residence with him. He had himself been born in it. Here he had
welcomed with delight, extravagant, indeed, but yet not wholly beyond our
sympathies, the birth of the daughter whom Poppæa had borne to him in the
preceding year; here he had mourned, extravagantly again, but not without some
real feeling, for the little one's death. It was at Antium, far from the wild
excitement of
The subject which now engaged
his attention, and the attention of his advisers, was one that seemed of a
harmless and even a laudable kind. It was nothing less than a magnificent plan
for the rebuilding of [6]
"Augustus," he
said, after enjoying for a time his companions' unfeigned surprise, "said
that he found a city of brick and left a city of marble. I mean to be able to
boast that I left a new city altogether. Indeed, I feel that nothing short of
this is worthy of me, and I thank the gods that have left for me so magnificent
an opportunity."
"And this vacant
space," asked Tigellinus, after [7] various details had been explained by
the Emperor: "What do you mean, Sire, to do with this?"
A huge blank had been left
in the middle of the map, covering nearly the whole of the
"That is meant to be
occupied by my palace and park," said the Emperor.
The Prime Minister, if one
may so describe him, could not restrain an involuntary gesture of surprise.
Nero's face darkened with
the scowl that never failed to show itself at even the slightest opposition to
his will.
"Think you,
then," he cried in an angry tone, "that it is too large? The Master
of Rome cannot be lodged too well."
Tigellinus felt that it
would be safer not to criticise any further. Poppæa, who, to do her justice,
was never wanting in courage, now took up the discussion. The objection that
she had to make was in keeping with a curious trait in her character.
"Pious" she certainly was not, though Josephus saw fit so to describe
her, but she was unquestionably superstitious. The terrors of an unseen world,
though they did not keep her back from vice and crime, were still real to her.
She did not stick at murder; but nothing would have induced her to pass by a
temple without a proper reverence. This feeling quickened her insight into an
aspect of the matter which her companion had failed to observe.
[8] "You will buy the
houses which you will have to pull down?" she said.
"Certainly," the
Emperor replied; "that will be an easy matter."
"But there are
buildings which it will not be easy to buy."
The scowl showed itself
again on Nero's face.
"Who will refuse to
sell when I want to buy?" he cried. "And besides, you may be sure
that I shall not stint the price."
"True, Sire, but there
are the temples, the chapels; they cannot be bought and sold as if they were
private houses."
Nero started up from his
couch, and paced the room several times. He could not refuse to see the
difficulty. Holy places were not to be bought and pulled down as if they were
nothing but so many bricks and stones.
"What say you,
Tigellinus?" he cried after a few minutes of silence. "Cannot the
Emperor do what he will? Cannot the priests or the augurs, or some one smooth
the way? Speak, man!" he went on impatiently, as the minister did not
answer at once.
"The gods forbid that
I should presume to limit your power!" said Tigellinus. "But yet—may
I speak freely?"
"Freely!" cried
Nero; "of course. When did I ever resent the truth?"
Tigellinus repressed a
smile. His own rise was certainly not due to speaking the truth. He went on:—
[9] "One sacred
building, or two, or even three, might be dealt with when some great
improvement was in question. That has been done before, and might be done
again, but when it comes to a matter of fifty or sixty, or even a hundred,—very
likely there are more, for they stand very thick in the old city,—the affair
becomes serious. I don't say it would be impossible, but there would be delay,
possibly a very long delay. The people feel very strongly on these things. Some
of these temples are held in extraordinary reverence, places that you, Sire,
may very likely have never heard of, but which are visited by hundreds daily.
To sweep them away in any peremptory fashion would be dangerous. There would
have to be ceremonies, expiations, and all the thousand things which the
priests invent."
"Well," exclaimed
the Emperor after a pause, "what is to be done?"
"Sire," replied
Tigellinus, "cannot you modify your plan? Much might be done without this
wholesale destruction."
"Modify it!"
thundered the Emperor. "Certainly not. It shall
be all or nothing. Do you think that I am going to take all this trouble, and
accomplish, after all, nothing more than what any ?dile
could have done?"
He threw himself down on
the couch and buried his face in the cushions. The Empress and the Minister
watched and waited in serious disquiet. There [10] was no knowing what wild
resolve he might take. That he had set his heart to no common degree on this
new scheme was evident. In all his life he had never given so much serious
thought to any subject as he had to this, and disappointment would probably
result in some dangerous outburst. After about half an hour had passed, he
started up.
"I have it," he
cried; "it shall be done,—the plan, the whole plan."
"Sire, will you deign
to tell us what inspiration the gods have given you?" said Tigellinus.
"All in good
time," said the Emperor. "When I want your help I will tell you what
it is needful for you to know. But now it is time for my harp practice. You
will dine with us, Tigellinus, and for pity's sake bring some one who can give
us some amusement. Antium is delightful in the daytime, but the
evenings! . . ."
"Madam," said
Tigellinus, when the Emperor had left the room, "have you any idea what he
is thinking of?"
"I have absolutely
none," replied Poppæa; "but I fear it may be something very strange.
I noticed a dangerous light in his eyes. It has been there often lately. Do you
think," she went on in a low voice, "there is any danger of his going
mad? You know about his uncle Caius." (Footnote:
The fourth Emperor, commonly called Caligula.)
"Don't trouble
yourself with such fears," replied [11] Tigellinus. "It is not
likely. His mother had the coolest head of any woman that I have ever seen; and
his father, whatever he was, was certainly not mad. And now, if you will excuse
me, I have some business to attend to."
He saluted the Empress and
withdrew. Poppæa, little reassured by his words, remained buried in
thought,—thought that was full of disquietude and alarm. She had gained all,
and even more than all, that she had aimed at. She shared Nero's throne, not in
name only, but in fact. But how dangerous was the height to which she had
climbed! A single false step might precipitate her into an abyss which she
shuddered to think of. He had spared no one, however near and dear to him. If
his mood should change, would he spare her? And his mood might change. At
present he loved her as ardently, she thought, as ever. But—for she watched him
closely, as a keeper watches a wild beast—she could not help seeing that he was
growing more and more restless and irritable. Once he had even lifted his hand
against her. It was only a gesture, and checked almost in its beginning, but
she could not forget it. "Oh!" she moaned to herself,—for, wicked as
she was, she was a woman after all,—"Oh, if only my little darling had
lived! Nero loved her so, and she would have softened him. But it was not to
be! Why did I allow them to do all these foolish idolatries? And yet, how could
I stop it? Still, I am sure that God [12] was angry with me about them, and
took the child away from me. And now there are these new troubles. I will send
another offering to
Poor creature! the thought of a sacrifice of justice and mercy never
entered into her soul.
THE HATCHING OF A PLOT
[13] ON the very day of the meeting
described in my last chapter, a party of six friends was gathered together in
the dining-room—I should rather say one of the dining-rooms—of a country house
at Tibur. The view commanded by the window of the apartment was singularly
lovely. Immediately below, the hillside, richly wooded with elm and chestnut,
and here and there a towering pine, sloped down to the lower course of the
river Anio. Beyond the river were meadow-lands, green with the unfailing
moisture of the soil, and orchards in which the rich fruit was already
gathering a golden hue. The magnificent falls of the river were in full view,
but not so near as to make the roar of the descending water inconveniently
loud. At the moment, the almost level rays of the setting sun illumined with a
golden light that was indescribably beautiful the cloud of spray that rose from
the pool in which the falling waters were received. It was an effect that was
commonly watched with intense interest by visitors to the villa, for, indeed,
it was just one of the beauties of nature which a Roman knew how to appre- [14]
ciate. Landscape, especially of the wilder sort, he did not care about; but the
loveliness of a foreground, the greenery of a rich meadow, the deep shade of a
wood, the clear water bubbling from a spring or leaping from a rock, these he
could admire to the utmost. But on the present occasion the attention of the guests
had been otherwise occupied. They had been listening to a recitation from their
host. To listen to a recitation was often a price which guests paid for their
entertainment, and paid somewhat unwillingly and even ungraciously. Rich dishes
and costly wines, the rarest of flowers, and the most precious of perfumes were
not very cheaply purchased by two hours of boredom from some dull oration or
yet duller poem. There was no such feeling among the guests who were now
assembled in this
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"Italian
fields of death, the blood-stained wave That swept
Sicilian shores, and that dark day That reddened |
(Footnote: A free translation of the last two lines of
C. VIII. Hesperi? clades et
flebilis unda Pachyni, Et Mutina, et Leucas puros fecere Philippos.) It was
followed by a round of genuine, even enthusiastic applause. When the applause
had subsided there was an interval of silence that was scarcely less
complimentary to the poet. This was broken at last by a remark from Licinius, a
young soldier who had lately been serving against the Parthians under the great
Corbulo, for many years the indefatigable and invincible guardian of the
Eastern frontier of the Empire.
"Lucan," he said,
"would you object to repeat a [16] few lines which occurred in your
description of the sacrifices on either side before the beginning of the
battle? We heard how all the omens were manifestly unfavourable to Pompey, and
then there followed something that struck me very much about the prayers and
vows of Cæsar."
"I know what you mean," replied the poet; "I will repeat them with pleasure. They run thus:—
|
" 'But
what dark thrones, what Furies of the pit, Cæsar, didst
thou invoke? The wicked hand That waged with
pitiless sword such impious war Not to the
heavens was lifted, but to Gods That rule the
nether world and Powers that veil Their maddening presence in Eternal night.' " |
"Exactly so,"
said Licinius. "Those were the lines I meant. But will you recite this in
public? How will Nero, who, after all, is the heir of Cæsar, and enjoys the
harvests reaped at Mutina, and
"He is not likely to
hear it. In fact, he has forbidden me to recite. He does not like rivals,"
he added with an air of indescribable scorn.
"Indeed," said
the young soldier; "then you have seen reason to change your opinions. I
remember having the great pleasure of hearing you read your first book. I was
just about to start to join my legion. It must have been about two years ago. I
can't exactly recollect the lines, but you mentioned, [17] I remember, Munda,
and Mutina, and
|
" 'Yet
great the debt our Roman fortunes owe To civil strife,
if this its end, to make Great Nero lord of men. . . .' " |
The other guests grew hot
and cold at the more than military frankness with which their companion taxed
their host with inconsistency. The inconsistency was notorious enough; but now
that the poet had abandoned his flatteries and definitely ranged himself with
the opposition, what need to recall it?
Lucan could not restrain
the blush that rose to his cheek, but he was ready with his answer.
"The Nero of to-day is
not the Nero of three years ago, for it was then that I wrote those
lines."
"Yet even then," whispered
another of the guests to his neighbour, "he had murdered his brother and
his mother."
A somewhat awkward silence
followed. Subrius, a tribune of the Prætorians, broke it by addressing himself
to Licinius.
"Licinius," he
cried, "tell our friends what you were describing to me the other
day."
"You mean," said
Licinius, "the ceremony of Tiridates' submission?"
"Exactly,"
replied Subrius.
"Well," resumed
the other, "it was certainly a sight that was well worth seeing. A more
magnifi- [18] cent army than the Parthian's never was. How the King could have
given in without fighting I cannot imagine, except that Corbulo fairly
frightened him. I could hardly have believed that there were so many
horse-soldiers in the world. But there they were, squadron after squadron,
lancers, and archers, and swordsmen, each tribe with its own device, a serpent,
or an eagle, or a star, or the crescent moon, till the eye could hardly reach
to the last of them. The legions were ranged on the three sides of a hollow square,
with a platform in the centre, and on the platform an image of the Emperor,
seated on a throne of gold."
"A truly Egyptian
deity!" muttered the poet to himself.
"King Tiridates,"
the soldier went on, "after sacrificing, came up, and kneeling on one knee,
laid his crown at the feet of the statue."
"Noble sight
again!" whispered Lucan to his neighbour. "A man
bowing down before a beast."
"And
Corbulo?" asked one of the guests, Lateranus by name, who had not hitherto
spoken.
"How did he bear himself on this occasion?"
"As modestly as the
humblest centurion in the army," replied Licinius.
"Yes, it was a
glorious triumph for
He paused, and looked with
a meaning glance at Lateranus.
[19] Lateranus, who was
sitting by the side of Lucan (indeed, it was to him that the poet had whispered
his irreverent comments on the ceremony by the
"Will you excuse
me?" he said to the host, and walking to the door opened it, examined the
passage hat led to it, locked another door at the further end, and then
returned to his place.
"Walls have
ears," he said, "but these, as far as I can judge, are deaf. We can
all keep a secret, my friends?" he went on, looking round at the company.
"To the death, if need
be," cried Lucan.
The four other guests murmured
assent.
"We may very likely be
called upon to make good our words. If any one is of a doubtful mind, let him
draw back in time."
"Go on; we are all
resolved," was the unanimous answer of the company.
Did there seem nothing
strange to you when our friend Licinius told us of the Parthian king laying his
crown at the feet of Nero's statue? What has Nero done that he should receive
such gifts? Our armies defend with their bodies the frontiers of
"The man and the sword
will not be wanting when the proper time shall come," said Subrius the
Prætorian in a tone of grim resolve. "But
"Why not restore the
Republic?" cried Lucan. "We have a Senate,
we have Consuls, and all the old machinery of the Government of freedom. The
great Augustus left these things, it would seem, of
set purpose, against the day when they might be wanted again."
"The Republic is
impossible," cried Subrius; "even [21] more impossible than it was a
hundred years ago. What is the Senate but an assembly of worn-out nobles and
cowardly and time-serving capitalists? I know there are exceptions; one of them
is here to-night," he went on with a bow to Lateranus; "and there is
Thrasea, who, I know, will make one of us, as soon as he knows what we are
meditating. But the Senate as a whole is incapable. And the people, where is
that to be found? Certainly not in this mob that cares for nothing but its dole
of bread, its gladiators, and its chariot-races. No; the Republic is a dream.
"What say you of
Corbulo, Licinius?" asked Sulpicius Asper, a captain of the Prætorians,
who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation. "His record is not
altogether spotless. But he is a great soldier, and one might conjure with his
name. And then his presence is magnificent, and the people love a stately
figure. Do you think that the thought has ever crossed his mind?"
"Corbulo,"
replied Licinius, "is a soldier, and nothing but a soldier. And he is
absolutely devoted to the Emperor. I remember how ill he took it when some one
at his table said something that sounded like censure. 'Silence!' he thundered.
'Emperors and gods are above praise and dispraise.' I verily believe that if
Nero bade him kill himself he would plunge his sword into his breast without a
murmur. [22] No, it is idle to think of Corbulo. In fact he is one of the great
difficulties that we should have to reckon with. Happily he is far off, and the
business will be done before he hears of it."
"There is Verginius on
the
"An
able man, none abler, if he will only consent."
"And
Sulpicius Galba in
"He is half
worn-out," said Lateranus; "but he has the advantage of being one of
the best born men in
"Why not a
philosopher?" asked Lucan after a pause. "Plato thought that
philosophers were the fittest men to rule the world."
"Are you thinking of
your uncle Seneca?" asked Lateranus. "For my part I think that it
would be a pity to take him away from his books; and to speak the truth, if I
may do so without offence, Seneca, though he is beyond doubt one of the
greatest ornaments of Rome, has not played the part of an Emperor's teacher (Footnote: Seneca, in conjuction with Burrus, commander
of the Prætorians, was tutor to Nero for many years.) with
such success that we could hope very much from him, were he Emperor
himself."
"There are, and indeed
must be, objections to every name," said Licinius after a pause. "The
soldiers will take it ill if the dignity should go to a civilian; and if the
choice falls on a soldier, then all the other [23] soldiers will be jealous.
Tell me, Subrius, would you Prætorians be content if the legions were to choose
an Emperor?"
Subrius shrugged his
shoulders.
"As for the armies of
the East," Licinius went on, "I know how fiercely they would resent
dictation from the West! Our friend Asper here, who, if I remember right, has
been aide-de-camp to Verginius, knows whether the German legions would be more
disposed to submit to a mandate from the
Asper could do nothing
better than imitate the action of his superior officer.
Licinius went on: "I
am a soldier myself, and can therefore speak more freely on this subject. We
have to choose between evils. Jealousy between one great army and another can
scarcely fail to end in war. The general discontent of all the armies, if a
civilian succeeds to the throne, will be less acute, and therefore less dangerous.
What say you to Calpurnius Piso?"
"At least," cried
Lucan, "he has the merit of not being a philosopher."
There was a general laugh
at this sally. Piso was a noted bon vivant and
man of fashion, and generally as unlike a philosopher in his habits and ways of
life as could be conceived.
"Exactly so,"
said Licinius, undisturbed by the remark; "and this, strange as it may
seem, is one of [24] the qualities which commend him to those who look at
things as they are, and not as they ought to be. This is not the time for
Consuls who leave their ploughs to put on the robes of office. The age is not
equal to such simple virtues. It wants magnificence; it demands that its heroes
should be well-dressed and drive fine horses and keep up a splendid establishment.
It is not averse to a reputation for luxury. Piso has such a reputation, and I
must own that it does not do him injustice. But he is a man of honour, and he
has some solid and many showy qualities. He has noble birth; a pedigree that
shows an ancestor who fought at Cann? is more than
respectable. He is eloquent, he is wealthy, but can give with a liberal hand as
well as spend, and he has the gift of winning hearts. And then he is bold. We
may look long, my friends, before we find a better man than Piso."
"There is a great deal
of truth in what you say; more truth than it is pleasant to acknowledge,"
said Lateranus. "But we must weigh this matter seriously. Meanwhile, will
Piso join us?"
"I feel as certain of
it as I could be of any matter not absolutely within my knowledge,"
replied Licinius. "Will you authorize me to sound him? Whether he agree or not, I can guarantee his silence."
Many other matters and men
were discussed; and before the party separated it was arranged that each of the
six friends should choose one person to be enrolled in the undertaking.
IN THE CIRCUS
[25] TWO days after the conversation related
in my last chapter Subrius and Lateranus were deep in consultation in the
library of the latter's mansion on the Esquiline Hill. The subject that
occupied them was, of course, the same that had been started on that occasion.
"Licinius tells
me," said the Prætorian, "that he has spoken to Piso, and that he
caught eagerly at the notion. I must confess that at first I was averse to the
man. It seemed a pity to throw away so magnificent an opportunity. What good
might not an honest, capable man do, if he were put in this place? It is no
flattery, but simple truth, that the Emperor is a Jupiter on earth. But it
seems hopeless to look for the ideal man. That certainly Piso is not. But he is
resolute, and he means well, and he will be popular. He is not the absolute
best, the four-square and faultless man that the philosophers talk about; very
far from it. But then the faultless man would not please the Romans, if I know
them; and to do the Romans, or, for the matter of that, any men, good, you must
please them first."
[26] "And how does the
recruiting go on?" asked Lateranus.
"Excellently
well," said Subrius, "within the limits that are set, that every man
should choose one associate. Asper and Sulpicius have both chosen comrades, and
can answer for their loyalty as for themselves. Lucan has taken Scævinus. I
should hardly have thought that the lazy creature had so much energy in him;
but these sleepy looking fellows sometimes wake up with amazing energy.
Proculus has chosen Senecio, who is one of the Emperor's inner circle of friends."
"Ah!" interrupted
Lateranus, "that sounds dangerous."
"There is no cause for
fear; Senecio, I happen to know, has very good reasons
for being with us, and, of course, he is a most valuable acquisition. When the
hour comes to strike, we shall know how and where to deal the blow. Then there
is Proculus, whom you have chosen. And finally I, I flatter myself, have done
well. Whom think you I have secured?"
"Well, it would be
difficult to guess. Your fellow tribune Statius, perhaps.
I should guess that he is an honest man, who would like to serve a better
master than he has got at present."
"Statius is well
enough, and we shall have him with us sure enough when the time shall come. But
meanwhile I have been doing better things than [27] that. What should you
say," he went on, dropping his voice to a whisper, "if I were to tell
you that it is Fænius Rufus?"
"What, the
Prefect?" asked Lateranus in tones of the liveliest surprise.
"Yes" replied
Subrius; "the Prefect himself."
"That is
admirable!" cried the other. "We not have hoped for anything so good.
But how did you approach him?"
"Oh! that was not so difficult. To tell you the truth, he met me
at least half-way. These things are always in the air. Depend upon it, there are hundreds of people thinking much the same
things that you and I are thinking, though not, perhaps, in quite so definite a
way. And why not? The same causes have been at work in
them as in us, and brought about much the same result."
"True! but we must be first in the field. So we must make
haste."
"There I agree
heartily with you. Delay in such matters is fatal. The secret is sure to leak
out. And with every new man we take into our confidence—and we must add a good
many more to our number—the danger becomes greater. Will you come with me on a
little visit that I am going to pay? I have an acquaintance whom
I should like you to see. He may be useful to us in this matter. I will tell
you about him. In the first place, I would have you know that my friend is a
gladiator."
[28] Lateranus raised his
eyebrows. "A gladiator!" he exclaimed in a doubtful tone. "He
might be useful in certain contingencies. But he would hardly suit our purpose
just now."
"Listen to his
story," said Subrius. "I assure you that it is well worth hearing;
and I shall be much surprised, if, when you have heard it, you don't agree with
me that Fannius, for that is my friend's name, is a very fine fellow. Well, to
begin with, he is a Roman citizen."
"Great Jupiter!"
interrupted Lateranus, "you astonish me more and more. A citizen
gladiator, and yet a fine fellow! I never knew one that was not a
thorough-paced scoundrel."
"Very likely,"
replied the Prætorian calmly. "Yet Fannius you will find to be an
exception to your rule. But to my story. The elder
Fannius rented a farm of mine three or four miles this side of Alba. He might
have made a good living out of it. There was some capital meadow land, a fair
vineyard, and as good a piece of arable as is to be found in the country. His
father had had it before him. In fact, the family were old tenants, and the
rent had never been raised for at least a hundred years. Then there was only
one son, and he was a hard-working young fellow who more than earned his own
keep. The father ought, I am sure, to have laid by money; but he was one of
those weak, good-natured fellows, who seem incapable of keeping a single denarius in their pock- [29] ets. It is only fair to say that
he was always ready to share his purse with a friend. In fact, his practice of
foolishly lending helped him to his ruin as much as anything else. That, and
the wine-cup, and the dice-box were too much for him. About five years ago, a
brother-in-law—his dead wife's brother, you must understand—died suddenly,
leaving an only daughter, with some fifty thousand sesterces for
her fortune, not a bad sum for a girl in her rank of life. He had been living,
if I remember right, at Tarentum, and, knowing nothing about his
brother-in-law's embarrassments, he had naturally made him his daughter's
guardian and trustee. Fannius, who was at his wit's end to know where to find
money, his farm being already mortgaged up to the hilt, accepted the trust only
too willingly. The son, disgusted at seeing extravagance and waste which he
could not stop, had gone away from home, and was serving under Corbulo. Perhaps
if he had been here, he might have been able to put a stop to the business. Well,
to make a long story short, the elder Fannius appropriated the money little by
little. Of course he was always intending to make it good. There was to be a
good harvest, or a good vintage, or, what, I believe, he really trusted in more
than anything else, a great run of luck at the gaming-table. Equally of course
he never got anything of the kind. Then came the
crash. The younger Fannius came back with his discharge from the East, [30] and
found his father lying dead in the house. There can be no doubt he had killed
himself. The son discovered in the old man's desk a letter addressed to himself
in which he told the whole story. The girl was living with an aunt. He had
always continued, somehow or other, to pay the interest on her money. She was
going to be married, and the capital would have to be forthcoming. This, I take
it, was the final blow, and the old man saw no other way of getting out of his
trouble but suicide. Suicide, by the way, is pretty often a way of shoving
one's own trouble on to somebody else's shoulders. Well, the poor fellow came
to me. He had brought home a little pay and prize-money. I forgave him what
rent was due, and bought whatever there was to sell on the farm—not that there
was much of this, I assure you. So he got a little sum of money together,
enough to pay the old man's debts. But then there was the niece's fortune. How
was that to be raised? It was absolutely gone; not a denarius of it left. I would have helped if I could, but I was
positively at the end of my means. Still I could have raised the money, if I
had known what young Fannius was going to do. But he said nothing to me or to
any one else. He went straight to the master of the gladiators' school and
enlisted. You see his strength and skill in arms were all he had to dispose of,
and so, to save his father's honour and his cousin's happiness, he sold them,
and, of course, himself with them. It [31] was indeed selling himself. You
know, I dare say, how the oath runs which a free man takes when he enlists as a
gladiator?"
"No; I do not remember
to have heard it."
"Well, it runs thus:—
" 'I, Caius
Fannius, do take hereby the oath of obedience to Marius, that I will consent to
be burnt, bound, beaten, slain with the sword, or whatever else the said Marius
shall command, and I do most solemnly devote both soul and body to my said
master, as being legally his gladiator.'
"The young man had no
difficulty in making good terms for himself. He was the most famous swordsman
of his tribe. Indeed, I don't know that he had his match in the whole Field of
Mars. He got his fifty thousand sesterces, paid the money over just in
time to prevent the truth coming out, and thus cheerfully put his neck under
this yoke. What do you say to that? Have I made good my words?"
"To the full,"
cried Lateranus enthusiastically. "He is a hero; nothing less."
The two friends had by this
time arrived at their destination, "the gladiators' school," as it
was called, kept by a certain Thraso. Subrius inquired at one of the doors
whether he could see Fannius, the Samnite—for it was in this particular corps
of gladiators, distinguished by their high-crested helmet and oblong shield,
that the young man was enrolled.
"He has just sat down
to the
[32] "Then we will not
disturb him, but will wait till he has finished," replied Subrius.
"Would you like to see
the boys at their exercises, sir?" asked the man, an old Prætorian, who
had served under Subrius when the latter was a centurion. "They have their
meal earlier, and are at work now."
"Certainly," said
Subrius, and the doorkeeper called an attendant, who conducted the two friends
to the training-room of the boys.
It was a curious spectacle
that met their eyes. The room into which they were ushered was of considerable
size and was occupied at this time by some sixty lads, ranging in age from ten
to sixteen, who were practising various games or exercises under the eyes of
some half-a-dozen instructors. Some were leaping over the bar, either unaided
or with the help of a pole; others were lunging with blunt swords at lay
figures; others, again, were practising with javelins at a mark. With every
group there stood a trainer who explained how the thing was to be done, and
either praised or blamed the performance. Every unfavourable comment, it might
have been noticed, was always emphasized by the application of a whip. Did the
competitor fail to clear the bar at a certain height, fixed according to his
age and stature, did he strike the lay figure outside a certain line which was
supposed to mark the vital parts, did his javelin miss the mark by a certain
distance, the whip descended [33] with an unfailing certainty on the unlucky
competitor's shoulders. Even the vanquished of two wrestlers, whose obstinate
struggle excited a keen interest in the visitors, met with the common lot,
though he had shown very considerable skill, and had indeed been vanquished
only by the superior weight and strength of his adversary.
|
|
From the boys' apartment
the friends went in to see the wild beasts.
The show of these creatures
was indeed magnificent, and, in fact, unheard of sums had been expended on
obtaining them. The Emperor was determined to outdo all his predecessors in the
variety and splendour of his exhibitions. Nor were his extravagances wholly
unreasonable. A ruler who was not a soldier, who could not, therefore,
entertain the Roman populace with the gorgeous display of a triumph, had now to
fall back upon other ways of at once keeping them in good humour and impressing
them with a sense of his greatness. The whole world, so to speak, had been
ransacked to make the collection complete. Twenty lions, magnificent specimens
most of them, had been brought from
"I am told, sir,"
said the doorkeeper, "that they cost, one with another, fifty thousand sesterces apiece. [34] It is the taking them alive, you see,
that makes it so expensive. And the pits, too, which are one way of doing this,
often break their bones. So they are mostly netted; and netting a lion is nasty
work. That fellow there"—he pointed as he spoke to a particularly powerful
male—"killed, they tell me, four men before they got him into the
cage."
Next to the lions were the
tigers. They, it seemed, had been even more costly than their neighbours, for
they had come considerably further. Secured among the
The man was particularly
communicative about the elephants. An Indian, he said, had been hired to bring
over a troop of performing animals of this kind, and their cleverness and
docility were almost beyond belief.
"One of them," he
told Subrius and his compan- [35] ion," can write his name with his trunk
in Greek characters on the sand. Another has got, the keeper tells me, as far
as writing a whole verse. A third can add and subtract. This last, having
failed one day in his task, and being docked of part of his food, was found
studying his lesson by himself in his house. You smile, sir," he said,
seeing that Lateranus could not keep his countenance. "I only tell you
what the keeper told me, but I can almost believe anything after what I have
seen myself. And then their agility, sir, is something marvellous, even
incredible. Who would think that these big creatures, which look so clumsy, can
walk on a tight-rope. Yet that I have seen with my own
eyes. And the man promises a more wonderful display than that. We are to have
four elephants walking on the tight-rope and carrying between them a litter
with a sick companion in it." At this the friends laughed outright.
"Clemens," said
Subrius, "what traveller's tales (Footnote:
Pliny the elder relates in his Natural History
these stories and others still more wonderful about the sagacity and
agility of elephants. He seems to speak of his own knowledge. Born A.D. 23, he
writes about events which happened at the very time to which my story refers.) are these?"
"I can only say,"
returned the man, "that my head is all in a whirl from what I have seen
with my own eyes and heard during the last few days."
"Fannius will have
finished by this time," said [36] Subrius, when they had completed the
round of the cages. "Lead the way, Clemens."
It was a singular sight
that presented itself to the two friends as they stood surveying the scene at
the door of the room in which the gladiators had been taking their meal. It was
a large chamber, not less than a hundred feet in length by
about half as many in breadth. The number of gladiators was about
eighty, but as this was one of the afternoons on which the men were accustomed
to receive their relatives and friends, there must have been present nearly
four times as many persons. Some of the better known men were surrounded by
little circles of admirers, who listened to everything that they had to say
with a devotion at least equal to that with which the
students of philosophy or literature were accustomed to hang upon the lips of
their teachers. The gladiators bragged of what they had done or were about to do, or, putting themselves into attitudes, rehearsed a
favourite stroke, or explained one of those infallible ways to victory which
seem so often, somehow or other, to end in defeat. Others sat in sullen and
stupid silence, others were already asleep, somnolence being, as Aristotle had
long before remarked, a special characteristic of the athletic habit of body.
The men were of various types and races, but the faces were, almost without
exception, marked by strong passions and low intelligence.
"On the whole,"
said Lateranus, after watching [37] the scene for a few minutes, "I prefer
the brutes that do not pretend to be men. Lions and tigers are far nobler
animals than these wretches; and as for elephants, whether or no we believe our
friend Clemens' marvellous stories about them, it would be an insult even to
compare them, so gentle, so teachable, so sagacious as they are, with these
savages."
"True in a general
way," said the Prætorian, "yet even here Terence's dictum (Footnote: "Homo sum; nihil humani a me alienum
puto." "I am a man; I think nothing that concerns mankind beyond my
sympathies.") could be applied. Even here there
is something of human interest. Look at that stout fellow there."
Lateranus turned his eyes
in the direction to which his companion pointed. The "stout fellow"
was a gigantic negro.
"Good Heavens!"
cried Lateranus in astonishment, for a pure-blood negro
was still a somewhat uncommon sight in
"No," replied the
Prætorian, who had a soldier's appreciation of an athletic frame. "If so, they have trained it very well. I warrant he
will be an awkward adversary for any one whom the lot may match with him when
the day shall come."
"May be," said
the other; "but what a face! what lips! what a nose! what hair! To think
that nature should ever have created anything so hideous!"
[38] "But see,"
cried Subrius, "there is one person at least who seems not to have found
our black friend so very unsightly."
And, indeed, at the moment
there came up to the negro a pretty little woman whose
fair complexion and diminutive stature exhibited a curious contrast to his
ebony hue and gigantic proportions. To judge from the blue colour of her eyes
and the reddish gold of her hair, she was a
"See," cried
Lateranus, "Hector, Andromache, and Astyanax over again! Only Hector seems
to have borrowed for the time the complexion of Memnon!"
"But we are forgetting
our friend Fannius," said Subrius. "Where is he? Ah! there I see
him," he exclaimed, after scanning for a minute or so the motley crowd
which so thronged the room as to make it difficult to distinguish any one
person. "And he, too, seems to have an Andromache. I thought he [39] was
an obstinate bachelor. But in that matter there are no surprises for a wise
man."
Fannius was just at that
moment bidding farewell to two women. About the elder of the two there was
nothing remarkable. She was a stout, elderly, commonplace person, respectably
dressed in a style that seemed to indicate the wife of a small tradesman or
well-to-do mechanic. The younger woman was a handsome, even distinguished
looking girl of one and twenty or thereabouts. Her features were Greek, though
not, perhaps, of the finest type. A deep brunette in complexion, she had soft,
velvety brown eyes that seemed to speak of a mixture of Syrian blood. This,
too, had given an arch to her finely chiselled nose, and a certain fulness,
which was yet remote from the suspicion of anything coarse, to her crimson
lips. Perhaps her mouth was her most remarkable feature. Any one who could read
physiognomies would have noticed at once the firmness of its lines. The chin,
just a little squarer than an Apelles, seeking absolutely ideal features for
his Aphrodite, would perhaps have approved, but still delicately moulded,
harmonized with the mouth. So did the resolute pose of her figure, and the
erect, vigorous carriage of the head. She was dressed in much the same manner
as the elder woman, naturally with a little more style, but with no pretension
to rank. Yet at the moment when the two friends observed the group she was
reaching her hand to [40] Fannius with the air of a princess, and the gladiator
was kissing it with all the devotion of a subject. The next moment she dropped
a heavy veil over her face and turned away.
The gladiator stood looking
at her as she moved away, so lost in thought that he did not notice the
approach of Subrius and his companion.
"Well, Fannius,"
cried the Prætorian, slapping him heartily on the shoulder, "shall we find
you, too, keeping festival on the Kalends of March?" (Footnote: The first day of March, when husbands and
wives joined in praying to Juno Lucina for the happiness and continuance of
their married life. Horace begins a well-known ode by supposing M?cenas to wonder what he, a bachelor, is doing with his
festal preparations on the first of March ("Martius C?lebs quid agam
Kalendis," etc., c. III. 8), and accounts for it by saying that the day
was the anniversary of a wonderful escape that he had had from being killed by
the fall of a tree.)
Fannius turned round and saluted.
The Prætorian, after formally returning the salute, warmly clasped his odd
acquaintance by the hand, a token of friendship which made the gladiator, who
remembered only too acutely the degradation of his position, blush with
pleasure.
"You are pleased to
jest, noble Subrius, about the worshipful goddess. What has a poor gladiator,
who cannot call his life his own for more than a few hours to do with marriage?
And Epicharis, though Venus knows I love her as my own soul, has her thought on
very different matters."
[41] "Well, well,
never despair!" returned the Tribune. "Venus will touch the haughty
fair some day with her whip. But, Fannius, when are you coming to see me? It
seems an age since we had a talk together. My friend here, too, who is to be Consul
next year, wishes to make your acquaintance."
"I am not my own
master, you know; but if I can get leave, I will come
to-night."
"So be
it; at the eleventh (Footnote: This would be
something more than an hour before sunset. The Roman day, whatever its length,
was divided into twelve hours. An hour in July would be, therefore, rather more
than sixty minutes.) hour I shall expect you."
A NEW ALLY
[42] "LATERANUS," said the Prætorian to his
friend, as they sat together after dinner, "did you notice the face of the
girl who was taking leave of our friend Fannius when we first espied him this
afternoon?"
"Yes, indeed, I
did," said the Consul elect; "it was a face that no one could help
noticing, and having once seen, could hardly forget."
"That is exactly as it
struck me; and I am sure that I have seen it before; and not so very long ago. But where? That puzzles me. Now and then I seem to have it,
but then it slips away again. Depend upon it, she is no ordinary woman. Very
beautiful she is, but somehow it is not the beauty, but the resolute strength
of her face that impresses one. And what did the man mean when he said that she
'thought about other things.' I have a sort of presentiment that she will help
us."
"You surprise
me," said Lateranus. "And yet—"
At this point he was
interrupted by the appearance of a slave who announced the arrival of the
expected guest.
[43] For some time the
conversation was general, Fannius taking his part in it with an ease and
readiness that surprised Lateranus, and even exceeded the expectations of his
old friend and landlord. It naturally turned, before very long, on the details
of life in the "gladiators' school." Fannius explained that he had
only a few more weeks to serve. After the next show, which was to take place in
September, he would be entitled to his discharge. He had been extraordinarily
successful in his profession, and the "golden youth" of
"Very good,"
replied Subrius. "The gods forbid that there should arise any need for my
services, but, if there should, you may be sure that I will not fail in my duty
as your friend."
"Many thanks,
sir," said Fannius, producing some papers from his pocket. "These are
acknowledgments from Cassius, the banker, of deposits which I have made with
him. Thras has charge of what I possess in coin, and will have instructions to
hand it over to you. And here is the paper of directions. Will you please to
read it? Is it quite plain?"
"Perfectly so,"
answered the Tribune. "But there is one question which I must take the
liberty of asking. You mention a certain Epicharis. Who is she? Where am I to
look for her?"
"She lives with her
aunt by marriage. Galla is the aunt's name, and she cultivates a little farm on
this side of Gabii. Any one there will direct you to it. She is the young woman
whom you saw speaking to me this afternoon."
"I guessed as
much," said Subrius, "and I have been
puzzling myself ever since trying to make sure whether I had seen her
before."
"That you might very
easily have done," replied [45] the gladiator. "She was much with the
Empress Octavia. Indeed, she was her foster-sister."
"Ah!" cried Subrius;
"that accounts for it. Now I remember all about it. I was on guard in the
Palace with my cohort on the day when the Empress Octavia was sent away to
"Yes, yes," said
Fannius, "you are right; she was with the Empress then; indeed, she
remained with her till her death. Oh! sir, it is a
piteous story that she tells. But perhaps I had better not speak about those
things."
"Speak on without
fear," replied the Prætorian. "I am one of the Emperor's soldiers,
and my friend here has received the honour of the Consulship from him; but we
have not therefore ceased to be Romans and men. Whatever you may tell us will be safely kept—"
The speaker paused, and
then added in a deliberate and meaning tone, "As long as it may be necessary
to keep it."
[46] The gladiator cast a
quick glance at him, and resumed. "Well, Epicharis was with her mistress
from the unlucky day when she was carried across the threshold of her husband's
house, (Footnote: Octavia was married to Nero in
53 A.D.) down to the very end. They were both children then, only twelve years
of age, and the poor Empress was really never anything else. But Epicharis soon
learnt to be a woman. From almost the first she had to protect her mistress.
Nero never loved his wife. Epicharis says she was too good for him, or, indeed,
for almost any man; that she ought to have had a philosopher or a priest for
her husband."
"I don't know that
philosophers or priests are better than other men," interrupted Subrius;
"but go on."
"Well, as I said, Nero
never loved her, but, for a time, he was decently civil to her. Then her
brother died, was—"
"Was poisoned, you
were going to say," said Subrius. "That is no secret. Everybody in
"Epicharis tells me
that the Empress never shed a tear. She had learnt to hide her feelings, as
children do when they are afraid of their elders. Then the Empress-mother came
by her end. As long as she was alive the wife's lot was tolerable. But after
that—oh! gentlemen, I could not bring myself to say a
tenth of the things that I have heard. They [47] are too dreadful. The poorest,
unhappiest woman had not so much to bear. I used to think when I was a boy that
the fine ladies who lived in great houses, and were dressed in gay silks, and
rode about in soft cushioned carriages, must be happy; but now that I have had
a look at what goes on behind palace walls, I don't think so any more. Then
came what you saw, sir, on the palace stairs. It is no wonder that the poor
Empress should look miserable after what she had gone through in those days,
seeing, for instance, her slave-girls tortured in the hope that something might
be wrung out of them against her. Epicharis herself they did not touch; she was
free, you see; but they threatened her. I warrant they got nothing by that. She
has a tongue, and knows how to use it. She let that monster Tigellinus know
what she thought of him, and his master too. She has
told me that she saw the Emperor wince once and again at the answers she made.
Then Octavia was sent away. It was a great relief to go; to be away from the
dreadful palace. She ran about the gardens and grounds of the villa,—it was to
Burrus' house near Misenum, you will remember, she was sent,—and made friends
with the little children; in fact, she was happier than she had ever been in
her life before. 'Now that I am out of their way, and do not interfere with
their plans, they will let me alone, and, perhaps, forget me.' This is what she
would say to Epicharis. 'I am sure that I don't want to marry [48] again, and
you had better follow my example, dear sister,'—she would often call Epicharis
'sister.' 'Husbands seem very strange creatures, so difficult to please, and
always imagining such strange things about one. You and I will live together
for the rest of our lives, and take care of the poor people. It really is much
nicer than
"No," said
Subrius; "he had wronged her far too deeply ever to be able to forgive."
"Just so,"
observed Lateranus; "and if he could have done it there was Poppæa, and a
woman never spares a rival, especially a rival who is better than herself.
Besides he dared not let his divorced wife live. You see she was the daughter of
Claudius, and her husband, supposing that she had married again, would have
been dangerously near the throne. And then the people loved her; that was even
more against her than anything else."
[49] "That is exactly
what Epicharis thought, so she has often told me. After a few days came news
that there had been great disturbances in Rome; that the people had stood up
like one man in the Circus, and shouted out to the Emperor, 'Give us back
Octavia!' and that Nero had annulled the divorce. Some of the poor woman's
attendants were in high spirits. You see they did not like
"Ah!" said
Subrius, "a lucky fever-fit saved me from being sent on that errand. My
cohort had been detailed for the duty; the sealed orders, which I [50] was not
to open till I reached the villa, had been handed to me; and then at the last
moment, when I was racking my brain, thinking how I could possibly get off,
there fortunately came this attack. I never had
thought before that I should be positively glad to have the ague."
"Well, sir, from what
Epicharis has told me, you were spared one of the most pitiable sights that
human eyes ever saw. Octavia was sitting in the garden when the Tribune came up
and saluted her. She gave him her hand to kiss. 'I suppose you have come to
take me back to
"Well,"
interrupted the Prætorian, "it must have been something to make that brute
Severus—for he was on duty in my place, I remember—shed a tear."
" ' Madam,' said the Tribune, 'you
mistake. We have come on another business. You are not to return to
"They told us in
[52] "Epicharis tells
a very different story. When the Empress saw the soldiers, she said in a very
cheerful voice—you see she had not the least idea that her life was in danger,
and Epicharis had never had the heart to tell her,—'Well, gentlemen, what is
you business this time? Where are you going to take me now? I must confess that
I liked Misenum better than this.' 'Madam,' said the Centurion in command 'with
your permission I will explain my business when I get to the house, if you will
be pleased to return thither.' He said this, you see, to gain time. On the way
back he contrived to whisper into Epicharis' ear what his errand really was.
She knew it already well enough, you may be sure. 'You must break it to her,'
he said. That was an awful thing for the poor girl to do. She is not of the
tearful sort,—you know; but she sobbed and wept as if her heart would break,
when she told me the story. The Empress went up to her bed-chamber to make some
little change in her dress. As she was sitting before the glass, Epicharis came
and put her arms round her neck. The Empress turned round a little surprised.
You see she would often kiss and embrace her foster-sister, but it was always
she that began the caress and the other that returned it. 'What ails you,
darling?' she said, for Epicharis' eyes were full of tears. 'O dearest lady, I
cannot help crying when I think that we shall have to part!' 'Surely,' said the
Empress, 'they are not going to be so cruel as to take you [53] away from me. I
will write to the Emperor about it; he can't refuse me this little favour.' 'O
lady,' said Epicharis, who was in despair what to say,—how could one break a
thing of this sort?—he will grant you nothing, not even another day.' 'What do
you mean?' said Octavia, for she did not yet understand. 'O lady,' she cried,
'these soldiers are come—' and she put into her look the meaning that she could
not put into words. 'What!' cried the poor woman, her voice rising into a
shrill scream, 'do you mean that they are come to kill me?' and she started up
from her chair. Epicharis has told me that the sight of her face, ghastly pale,
with the eyes wide open with fear, haunts her night and day. 'Oh, I cannot die!
I cannot die!' she cried out. 'I am so young. Can't you hide me somewhere?' 'O
dearest lady!' said Epicharis, 'I would die to save you. But there is no way.
Only we can die together.' Then she took out of her robe two poniards, which
she always carried about in case they should be wanted in this way. 'Let me
show you. Strike just as you see me strike. After all it hurts very little, and
it will all be over in a moment.' 'No, no, no!' screamed the unhappy lady,
'take the dreadful things away. I cannot bear to look at them. I will go and
beg the soldiers to have mercy.' And she flew out of the room to where the
Centurion was standing with his men in the hall. She threw herself at the man's
feet—it was a most pitiable thing to see, Epicharis said when she told me [54]
the story—and begged for mercy. Poor thing, she clung to life, though the gods
know she had had very little to make her love it. The Centurion was unmoved,—as
for some of the common soldiers, they were half disposed to rebel,—and said
nothing but, 'Madam, I have my orders.' 'But the Emperor must have forgotten,'
she cried out; 'I am not Empress now, I am only a poor widow, and almost his
sister.' Then again, 'Oh, why does Agrippina let him do it?' seeming to forget
in her terror that Agrippina was dead. After this had gone on for some time,
the officer said to one of his men, 'Bind her, and put a gag in her mouth.'
Epicharis saw one or two of the men put their hands to their swords when they
heard the order given. But it was useless to think of resisting or disobeying.
They bound her hand and foot, and gagged her, and then carried her into the
house. They had brought a slave with them who knew some thing about surgery.
This man opened the great artery in each arm, but somehow the blood did not
flow. 'It is fairly frozen with fear,' Epicharis heard him say to the
Centurion. Then the two whispered together, and after a while the men carried
the poor woman into the bath-room. Epicharis was not allowed to go with her;
but she heard that she was suffocated with the hot steam, and that, as far as
any one knew, she never came to herself again. That, anyhow, is something to be
thankful for."
"They told a story in
"No," replied
Fannius; "she never knew what became of the body. She was never allowed to
see it; it was burnt that night, she was told."
"And so this is the
true story of Octavia," said Subrius after a pause. "You remember,
Lateranus, there was a great thanksgiving for the Emperor's deliverance from
dangerous enemies, and the enemy was this poor girl. Why don't the gods, if
they indeed exist (which I sometimes doubt), rain down their thunderbolts upon
those who mock them with these blasphemous pretences?"
"Verily," cried
Lateranus, "if they had been so minded
The gladiator looked with a
continually increasing astonishment on the two men who used language of such
unaccustomed freedom. Subrius thought it time to make another step in advance.
"As you have taken us
into your confidence," he said, "about the contents of your will, you
will not mind my asking you a question about these matters."
"Certainly not,"
answered the man. "You need not be afraid of offending me."
"If things go well
with you, as there is every hope [56] of their doing, and you get your
discharge all right, what do you look forward to?"
The gladiator shifted his
position two or three times uneasily, and made what seemed an attempt to speak,
but did not succeed in uttering a word.
"If Epicharis does not
become your legatee, as I sincerely hope she may not, is she to have no
interest in your money?"
"Ah, sir, she will
make no promises, or rather, she talks so wildly that she might as well say nothing
all."
"What do you
mean?"
"I may trust you,
gentlemen, for I am putting her life as well as my own in your hands?"
"Speak on boldly.
Surely we have both of us said enough this evening to bring our necks into
danger, if you chose to inform against us. We are all sailing in the same
ship."
"It is true. I ought
not to have doubted. Well, what she says to me is this, 'Avenge my dear
mistress on those who murdered her, and then ask me what you please.' She won't
hear of anything else. I have asked her what I could do, a simple gladiator,
who has not even the power to go hither or thither as he pleases. She has only
one answer, 'Avenge Octavia!' "
"It is not so hopeless as you think. There many who hold that Octavia
should be avenged, aye, and others besides Octavia. We are biding our [57]
time, and there are many things that seem to show that it is not far off. You
will be with us then, Fannius?"
"Certainly," said
the gladiator. "I want to hear nothing more; the fewer names I know, the
better, for then I cannot possibly betray them. Only give me the word, and I
follow. But how about Epicharis?" he went on; "is she to hear
anything?"
"I don't like letting
women into a secret," said Lateranus.
"Nor I," said
Subrius, "as a rule; but if there is any truth in faces, this particular
woman will keep a secret and hold to a purpose better than most of us. Shall we
leave it to Fannius' discretion?"
To this Lateranus agreed.
After some more
conversation the gladiator rose to take his leave. A minute or so afterwards he
returned to the room. "Gentlemen," he said, "there is a great
fire to be seen from a window in the passage, and from what I can see it must
be in the Circus, or, anyhow, very near it."
A GREAT FIRE
[58] THE two friends hurried to the window.
At the very moment of their reaching it a great flame shot up into the air. It
was easy to distinguish by its light the outline of the Circus, the white
polished marble of which shone like gold with the reflection of the blaze.
"It can scarcely be
the Circus itself that is on fire," cried Subrius; "the light seems
to fall upon it from without. But the place must be dangerously near to it.
Hurry back, Fannius, as quick as you can. We shall come after you as soon as
possible, and shall look out for you at the Southeastern Gate."
The gladiator ran off at
the top of his speed, and the two friends lost no time in making themselves
ready to follow him. Discarding the dress of ceremony in which they had sat
down to dinner, for indeed, the folds of the toga were not a little
encumbering, they both equipped themselves in something like the costume which
they would have assumed for a hunting expedition, an outer and an inner tunic,
drawers reaching to the knee, leggings and boots. Lateranus was by far the
larger man of [59] the two; but one of his freedmen was able to furnish the
Prætorian with what he wanted.
"Don't let us forget
the hunting-knives," said Lateranus; "we may easily want something
wherewith to defend ourselves, for a big fire draws to it all the villains in
the city."
By this time all
Arrived at the spot, the
friends found that the conflagration was even more extensive and formidable
than they had anticipated. The Circus was still untouched, but it was in
imminent danger. A shop where oil for the Circus lamps had been sold was
burning fiercely, and it was separated from the walls of the great building
only by a narrow passage. As for the shop itself, there was no hope of saving
it; the. flames had got such a mastery over it that
had the Roman appliances for extinguishing fire been ten [60] times more
effective than they were, they could hardly have made any impression upon them.
To keep the adjoining buildings wet with deluges of water was all that could be
done. A more effective expedient would have been, of course, to pull them down.
Subrius, who was a man of unusual energy and resource, actually proposed this
plan of action to the officer in command of the Watch, a body of men who
performed the functions of a fire-brigade. The suggestion was coldly received.
The officer had received, he said, no orders, and could not take upon himself
so much responsibility. And who was to compensate the owners, he asked. And
indeed, the time had hardly come for the application of so extreme a remedy. As
a matter of fact, it is always employed too late. Again and again enormous loss
might be prevented if the vigorous measures which have to be employed at the last
had been taken at the first. No one, indeed, could blame the Prefect of the
Watch for his unwillingness to take upon himself so serious a responsibility,
but the conduct of his subordinates was less excusable. They did nothing, or
next to nothing, in checking the fire. More than this, they refused, and even
repulsed with rudeness, the offers of assistance made by the bystanders. A cordon was formed to keep the spectators at a distance from
the burning houses; for by this time the buildings on either side had caught
fire. This would have been well enough, if it had been desired that the firemen
[61] should work unimpeded by the pressure of a curious mob; but, as far as
could be seen, they did nothing themselves, and suffered nothing to be done by
others.
Subrius and Lateranus,
though they were persons of too much distinction to be exposed to insult, found
themselves unable to do any good. They were chafing under their forced
inaction, when they were accosted by the gladiator.
"Come,
gentlemen," he said; "let us see what can be done. The fire has
broken out in two fresh places, and this time inside the Circus."
"In two places!"
cried Subrius in astonishment. "That is an extraordinary piece of bad
luck. Has the wind carried the flames there?"
"Hardly, sir,"
replied the man, "for the night, you see, is fairly still, and both
places, too, are at the other end of the building."
"It seems that there
is foul play somewhere," said Lateranus. "But come, we seem to be of
no use here."
The three started at full speed
for the scene of the new disaster, Fannius leading the way. One of the fires,
which had broken out in the quarters of the gladiators, had been extinguished
by the united exertions of the corps. The other was spreading in an alarming
way, all the more alarming because it threatened that quarter of the building
in which the wild beasts were kept. The keeper of the Circus, who had, within
the building, an authority independ- [62] ent of the
Prefect of the Watch, exerted himself to the utmost in checking the progress of
the flames, and was zealously seconded by his subordinates; but the buildings
to be saved were unluckily of wood. The chambers and storehouses underneath the
tiers of seats were of this material, and were besides, in many cases, filled
with combustible substances. In a few minutes it became evident that the
quarters of the beasts could not be saved. The creatures seemed themselves to
have become conscious of the danger that threatened them, and the general
confusion and alarm were heightened by the uproar which they made. The shrill
trumpeting of the elephants and the deep roaring of the tigers and lions, with
the various cries of the mixed multitude of smaller creatures, every sound
being accentuated by an unmistakable note of fear, combined to make a din that
was absolutely appalling. The situation, it will be readily understood, was
perplexing in the extreme. The collection was of immense value, and how could
it be removed? For a few of the animals that had recently arrived the movable
cages in which they had been brought to the Circus were still available, for,
as it happened, they had not yet been taken away. Others had of necessity to be
killed; this seemed better than leaving them to perish in the flames, for they
could not be removed, and it was out of the question to let them loose. This
was done, to the immense grief of their keepers, for each beast [63] had its
own special attendant, a man who had been with it from its capture, and who was
commonly able to control its movements. The poor fellows loudly protested that
they would be responsible for the good behaviour of their charges, if they
could be permitted to take them from their cages; but the Circus authorities
could not venture to run the risk. An exception was made in the case of the
elephants. These were released, for they could be trusted with their keepers. A
part of the stock was saved—saved at least from the fire—by a happy thought
that struck one of the officials of the Circus. A part of the arena had been
made available for an exhibition of a kind that was always highly popular at
Throughout the night
Subrius and Lateranus exerted themselves to the utmost, and their efforts were
ably seconded by the gladiator. The day was beginning to break when, utterly
worn out by their labours, they returned to the house. Fannius was permitted by
his master to accompany them. The man had contrived to collect his slave
gladiators, with the exception of two who had perished in a drunken [64] sleep.
These he had removed to a house which he possessed in the suburbs, and which
was commonly used as a sanatorium for the sick and wounded. Fannius, who, as a
freeman, bound by his own voluntary act, and serving for purposes of his own,
was not likely to run away, he allowed to accompany Lateranus to his home.
They were not permitted to
enjoy for long their well-earned repose. It was barely the second hour (Footnote: The "second hour" would, at this
time of year (July), have been about 6 A.M.) when a loud knocking at the outer
gate roused the porter, who, having himself watched late on the preceding
night, was fast asleep. Looking through the little opening which permitted him
to take a preliminary survey of all applicants for admission, he saw an elderly
slave, who, to judge from his breathless and dishevelled condition, had been
engaged in a personal struggle.
The slave was really an old
acquaintance, but the porter was still stupid with sleep, and the newcomer was
greatly changed in appearance from the neat and well-dressed figure with which
the guardian of the door was familiar.
"Who are you, and what
do you want?" he asked in a surly tone. "The master can see no
callers this morning; he was up late and is fast asleep,—though, indeed,"
he added in an undertone, "you do not look much like a caller."
[65] "Waste no
time," cried the man; "I must see him, whether he be awake or asleep.
It is a matter of life and death."
"Good Heavens!"
cried the porter, recognizing the voice; "is it you, Dromio? What in the
world brings you here in such a plight?"
"The furies seize
you!" cried Dromio, shaking the gate in a fury of impatience; "why
don't you open?"
Thus adjured the porter
undid the bar, calling at the same time to a slave in the inner part of the
house, who was to take the visitor to Lateranus' apartment.
"You must see the
master, you say?" said the porter. "I don't like to wake him without
necessity. He did not come back last night till past the middle of the fourth
watch."
"Must see him? Yes,
indeed," cried Dromio. "The gods grant that I may not be too
late."
The other slave appeared at
this moment. "Lead me to your master," said Dromio; "quick,
quick!"
Lateranus, roused from the
deep sleep into which he had fallen, was at first almost as much perplexed as
the porter had been.
"Who is this?" he
cried to the slave; "did you not understand that I would have no—"
"Pardon me, my
lord," cried Dromio, as he took one of Lateranus' hands and kissed it.
"I come from the Lady Pomponia."
"There is nothing
wrong, I hope?"
[66] "Dreadfully
wrong, I fear. The gods grant that she may be still alive!"
"What has
happened?"
"Her house is
attacked, and she begs your help. I will tell you the story afterwards, but I
implore you, by all the gods, do not lose a moment!"
Lateranus touched three
times a hand-bell that stood by his side, at the same time springing from his
couch on to the floor and beginning to dress. The summons of the bell,
signifying as it did that the presence of the steward was required, soon
brought that official to the chamber.
"Arm the cohort (Footnote: The term is loosely used for a number of
individuals united by a common relation to one person. So the retinue of a
Provincial Governor was known as his "cohort.") at
once," said Lateranus, "and send a runner to tell the Tribune Subrius
that he is wanted."
The "cohort" was
not of course the regular military division known by that name, but a retinue
of young freedmen and slaves who were regularly drilled in arms.
"It shall be done, my
lord," said the steward, saluting.
"And now," said
Lateranus, "while I am dressing tell me what it is all about."
Dromio then told his story.
"Rather more than an
hour ago a man knocked at the door, and said that he wished to see the Lady
[67] Pomponia. You know my mistress' ways—what a number of strange pensioners
she has. In her house it is impossible to be surprised at any visitor. Still
there was something about this man that made the porter suspicious. One thing
was that the fellow spoke with a strong Jewish accent, and many of the Jews
have a very great hatred against the mistress. Anyhow the porter kept the door
shut, and said that he must have the stranger's name and business. 'Lucian is
my name,' said the man, 'and I bring a message from Clemens the Elder.' That,
you know, is one of the priests whom my lady makes so much of. That seemed
satisfactory, and the porter opened the gate. Then what does this fellow do but
put his foot on the threshold so that the door should not be shut again, and
whistles a signal to his companions, who, it seems, were in waiting round the
next corner. Anyhow some five and twenty as ill-looking ruffians as you ever
set eyes on came running up. By good luck the porter had his youngest son Geta
sitting in the lodge, 'Help!' he cries, and Geta who is a regular Hercules,
comes running out, seizes the first fellow by the throat and throws him out,
deals just in the same fashion with a second, who was half over the threshold,
and bangs to the gate. At that a regular howl of rage came from the party
outside. 'Open, or we will burn the house down,' shouted their leader.
Pomponia, by this time, had been roused by the uproar. She understood what [68]
was to be done in a moment; she always does; we sometimes say that she must
have learned something of this art from the old General. (Footnote: Pomponia was now the widow of Aulus Plautus,
who in A.D. 43 was sent to conquer
"That she shall have
as quick as I can give it," said Lateranus;
"but where are the Watch? Are houses to be besieged in
"My lord,"
answered Dromio, "that is just what
At this moment the steward
entered the room. "The cohort is ready," he said.
BAFFLED
[69] THE company which Lateranus called his
"cohort" consisted of about thirty men, divided into three guards, as
we may call them, of ten. They were armed after the fashion of the "gowned"
or civilian cohort of the Prætorians, which was accustomed to keep guard in the
Emperor's palace; that is, they had neither helmet or shield or pike, but
carried swords and lances. Even these arms they never wore except within the
precincts of the house, and then only when they were being drilled and
practised in sword play and other military exercises. Lateranus always spoke of
the cohort as a plaything of his own which had no serious purpose, and it may
readily be understood that he was careful not to make any display of it. Any
master was at liberty to put weapons into the hands of his dependents in an
emergency. The only difference was that these dependents had been trained to
use these weapons skilfully and in concert. And now the emergency was come
which was to put their utility to a practical test. One of the guards of ten
was left to protect the house. Lateranus, who was apparently unarmed, but [70]
carried a short sword underneath his outer tunic, proceeded with the other two
at the "double" to the scene of action.
The relieving force was not
a moment too soon in arriving. The outer gates of the mansion had been forced
open, and the assailants were applying crowbars to the door which led to the
private apartments of Pomponia. This, indeed, had given way; naturally it had
not been made strong enough to resist a violent assault; but the domestics
within had piled up a quantity of heavy furniture which had to be removed
before the besiegers could make good their entrance. This obstacle saved the house.
Before it could be got rid of, the relieving party arrived, and took the
assailants in the rear. The leader of the latter at once recognized that his
purpose had been defeated, and desisted from his attempt without challenging a
struggle with the new arrivals. His bearing, however, was curiously unlike what
might have been expected from the ringleader of a lawless gang surprised by a
superior force. So far from displaying any embarrassment, he appeared to be
perfectly at his ease, and accosted Lateranus with all the air of an equal.
"You have been
beforehand with me this time, sir," he said in a quiet tone, which
nevertheless was full of suppressed fury. "I shall not forget it."
Lateranus smiled.
"Neither will they for
whom I act," went on the other, "and that
you will find no laughing matter."
[71] "I shall always
be ready to answer for myself," said Lateranus firmly. "Since when
has your mistress taken it upon herself to send storming parties against the
houses of innocent citizens?"
To this the man made no
reply. "You will not hinder our departure," he went on after a pause.
"You will find it better not to do so."
Lateranus shrugged his
shoulders. "You can go," he said; "it is not my business to do
the duty of the guards, but if there is any justice in
"Justice!" cried
the fellow with an insolent laugh; "we know something much better than
that."
Meanwhile the cohort had
been waiting with eagerness for the end of the colloquy. All had their hands on
the hilt of their swords, and all were ready to use them. Profound was their
disappointment when, instead of the expected order to draw, came the command to
stand at ease. One by one the assailants filed out of the court, their leader
being the last to leave the place.
"What ails the
master?" said one of the younger men, in an angry whisper to his
neighbour.
"Hush!" replied
the man addressed. "Don't you see that it is Theodectes?"
"Theodectes!"
said the other; "who is Theodectes?"
"The
favourite freedman of Poppæa. Is not that enough for you?"
[72] Meanwhile Lateranus,
leaving instructions that the cohort should remain for the present in the
court, made his way to the apartment where Pomponia was awaiting him.
"Welcome!" she
said, coming forward and taking his hand with a peculiarly gracious smile;
"the Lord has sent you in good time."
Pomponia Gr?cina, to give the lady her full name, was a woman of
singularly dignified presence. She was now not far from her seventieth year,
and her abundant hair, which, contrary to the fashion of the ladies of her
time, she wore with a severe plainness, was of a silvery whiteness. But her
figure was erect; her complexion retained no little of the bloom of youth,—a
bloom which, again in opposition to contemporary custom, owed nothing to the
resources of art; and her eyes could flash, on occasion, with a fire which
years had done nothing to quench. Her history was one of singular interest. She
came of a house not originally noble, but distinguished by having produced many
eminent citizens and soldiers. Perhaps the most famous of these had been
Pomponius Atticus, the friend and correspondent of
Pomponia went on:
"Here is some one else who has to thank you for your timely aid. I will
present you to her."
She drew aside as she spoke
the curtains that hung over an arch leading into a smaller apartment. Into this
she disappeared for a moment, and then returned leading by the hand a girl who
may have numbered some eighteen summers.
"Claudia," she
said, "this is Plautius Lateranus, my husband's nephew, whom we are to
have for our Consul next year, and who meanwhile has delivered us from a very
great danger. And this," she went on, turning to Lateranus, "is
Claudia, whom I venture to call my daughter, as indeed she is, though not after
the flesh."
The Roman, though he had
known all the beauties of the Imperial Court for more than twenty years, was
fairly surprised by the loveliness of the girl, a loveliness that was all the
more startling because it [75] was in some respect so different from that which
he had been accustomed to admire in Italian maids and matrons. Her eyes, as far
as he could see them, for they were bent downwards under their long lashes,
were of a deep sapphire blue, the eyebrows exquisitely pencilled, the forehead
somewhat broader and higher than agreed with the commonly accepted canons of
taste, but of a noble outline, and full, it seemed, of intelligence. The nose
was slightly retrousse, but this departure from the straight line of the
Greek and the acquiline curve of the Roman feature seemed to give the face a
peculiar piquancy; the lips were full and red; the complexion, while
exquisitely clear, had none of the pallor which comes from the indoor habit of
life. Claudia had never been afraid of the sun and the wind, and they had dealt
kindly with her, neither freckling nor tanning her face, but giving it an
exquisite hue of health. Her hair, of glossy chestnut hue, was not confined in
the knot which Roman fashion had borrowed from the art of
"I greet you, fair
cousin," he said with an admiring glance, "for if my aunt, who always
speaks the truth, calls you daughter, my cousin you must
needs be."
Claudia muttered a few
words that probably were meant for thanks. They did not catch the listener's
[76] ear, though he noticed that they were spoken with the hesitation of one
who was using an unfamiliar language. Then the colour which had covered the
girl's cheek, as she came forward, with a brilliant flush, faded as suddenly.
She cast an imploring look, as if asking for help, on the elder lady.
"Ah! my child," cried Pomponia, "you suffer. I have
lived so long alone that I have grown thoughtless and selfish, or I should have
known that you wanted rest after all that you have gone through. Sit you here
till I can call Chloris." And she made the girl sit in the chair from
which she had herself risen, while she pressed a
hand-bell that stood on a table close by.
A Greek waiting-maid
speedily appeared in answer to the summons.
"Have the litter
brought hither," said Pomponia, "and carry the Lady Claudia to her
room."
"Nay, mother,"
said the girl, "I should be ashamed to give so much trouble, and indeed, I
do not want the litter. I will go to my room indeed, but it will be enough if
Chloris will give me her arm."
"You are sure?"
said the elder lady. "I have seen so little of young people of late years
that I am at a loss."
"Yes, indeed, mother,
quite sure," and she withdrew, supporting herself by the attendant's arm,
but more in show than in reality, for indeed the faintness, quite a new
sensation to Claudia's vigorous health, had quite passed away,
[77] "My dear
aunt," said Lateranus, when the girl had left the room, "this is
indeed a surprise. From what quarter of the world have you imported this
marvellous beauty? That she is not Latin or Greek I saw at a glance, and I have
been puzzling my brain ever since to find out to what nation she belongs. Is
she
"Nay," replied
Pomponia; "you must go further than
"Ah!" said
Lateranus after reflecting for a minute or two. "By all the gods!—pardon
me, aunt," he went on, seeing a shadow pass over his aunt's gentle
face,—"I had forgotten. Verily, I have it! She must be British!"
"Now you are
right."
"And how long has she
been with you? I heard nothing of her when I was last here."
"A
month only. Her
coming, indeed, was quite unexpected, and to be quite candid, at first
unwelcome. You know my way of life. I had grown so accustomed to being alone
that I almost dreaded the sight of a new face."
"Well," said
Lateranus, "a face like that need hardly frighten you."
"Ah, you think her
beautiful?" cried Pomponia, her face lighted up with one of her rare
smiles. "And don't you see just a little likeness to my dearest
Julia?"
"Yes; there is
certainly a likeness, especially about the eyes."
[78] "As soon as I saw
that, I began to love her; and indeed I soon found that she is worth loving for
her own sake. And there is another reason, too, which I fear, my dear nephew,
you will not understand."
"Ah! I see; she is of
the same sect, I suppose. It has reached to
"Wonderful indeed, and more than wonderful if it were what you call it,
a sect. Oh, dear Aulus, (Footnote: We do not
know the pr?nomen or first name of Plautius Lateranus,
but there is a certain presumption that it was Aulus. The Roman first names
were very few in number (only seventeen in all), and particular families were
in the habit of restricting themselves to a few of these. (All the Scipios, for
instance, known to history, bore one of the three first names, Lucius, Publius,
or Cn?us.) We know that the uncle of Lateranus, the
famous General, was an Aulus. I have therefore ventured to give it him, putting
it here into Pomponia's mouth in making this appeal as having a more
affectionate sound.) if you would but listen!"
"All
in good time, dear aunt, perhaps when my Consulship is over. It would certainly be awkward if
you made a proselyte of me before."
"In
good time, dear Aulus! Nay, there is no time so good as this. Who
knows what may happen before your Consulship is over?"
"Nay,
nay, dear aunt; good words, good words! But tell me, who is this lovely
Claudia?"
"You have heard your
uncle speak of King Cogidumnus?"
"Yes, I remember the
name. He lived somewhere, if I remember right, on the edge of the great south-
[79] ern forest, of which my uncle used to tell such wonders."
"Just so; he was the King
of the Regni. Indeed, he is living still. Well, the King took our side.
Claudius made him a Roman citizen, and allowed him to assume his own names, so
that he is a Tiberius Claudius; and also enlarged his kingdom with some of the
country which your uncle conquered."
"Yes, I remember now
hearing about it from my friend Pudens. He was wrecked on the coast in one of
those terrible storms that they have out there, and made his way to the chief
town of the Regni. (Footnote: Now
"Well," resumed
Pomponia, "Claudia is his daughter."
"You astonish me more
and more," cried Lateranus. "And pray, what brings her to
"A prince who pays
tribute to
"You interest me
greatly in your Claudia. But, my dear aunt, we have to consider the future,
both for you and her. You know, of course, who is at
the bottom of this business."
"Yes, I
know—Poppæa."
"But tell me, for I
confess it puzzles me, why does Poppæa hate you? That she will spare no one who
stands in the way of her pleasure or her ambition I understand; but you, how do
you interfere with her?"
"Listen, Aulus. Poppæa
has another thing that she cares for besides pleasure and power, and that is
what she calls her religion."
"But I thought—pardon
me for mentioning such a creature in the same breath with you—I thought that
you and she were of somewhat the same way of thinking in this matter."
"It was natural that
you should. Most people who know anything at all about such things have the
same notion. But it is not so. Briefly, the truth is this. The religion to
which Poppæa inclines is the religion of the Jews; the faith to which, by God's
mercy, I have been brought, rose up among the same nation. A Jew first gave it
to men; Jews have preached it since. But those who still walk in the old ways
hate them that follow the new, hate them worse than they hate the heathen.
Poppæa, poor creature, knows [82] nothing about such matters, but the men to
whom she goes for counsel, the men who she hopes will find a way for her to go
on sinning and yet escape the punishment of sin, the men who take her gifts for
themselves and their temple, and pay for them with smooth words, they
know well enough the difference between themselves and us; it is they who stir
her up; it is they who have told her to make a first victim of me."
"I understand, at
least in part, but what you say only makes me feel more anxious. What will you
do? She has been baffled this time; but she won't take her defeat. If I am not
mistaken, there is going to be a dreadful time in
As he finished speaking, a
slave knocked at the door of the apartment. Bidden to enter, he ushered in
Subrius the Prætorian and a friend.
FLIGHT
[83] "LET me present to you my friend
Subrius, a Tribune of the Prætorians," said Lateranus, addressing
Pomponia. "I sent for him as soon as your message reached me."
"You are very good in
coming so readily to help a stranger," said Pomponia with a gracious
smile.
"I do not think of the
Lady Pomponia as a stranger," replied the Tribune. "I had the honour
of serving my first campaign under her husband. Allow me, in my turn, to
present to you my friend and kinsman, Marcus Annius Pudens. He has just
returned on furlough from the
"I thank you, too,
sir," said Pomponia. "It is very pleasant to find that one has so
many friends."
"Well," said
Lateranus, "you are come in time. Just now we don't want your swords, but
we certainly want your counsel. Have I your permission," he went on,
addressing himself to Pomponia, "to put the whole state of the case before
these gentlemen?"
Pomponia signified her
assent.
"Matters then stand thus.
For reasons which it [84] is needless at present to explain, the Lady Pomponia
has incurred the enmity of Poppæa. I recognized the Empress' most trusted
freedman as the leader of the attack which I had the good fortune to be able to
repulse. If I know anything of her and him they won't accept defeat. The
question is, what is to be done? What say you,
Subrius?"
The Tribune considered
awhile. "It is quite clear that Poppæa and her agent are taking advantage
of an exceptional time. Commonly, even she would not have ventured so far. Men
have not forgotten what Aulus Plautius did for
"A big fire," remarked
Pudens, "gives a fine opportunity for thieves, and they naturally make the
best of it."
"True," replied
the Tribune; "but why do the [85] Watch behave as if they were in league
with them? Did not the same thing strike you last night, Lateranus?"
"Yes," said
Lateranus. "At first I thought that they were simply dazed by the
magnitude of the disaster; afterwards I could not help seeing that they were
deliberately increasing it."
"Well, then,"
resumed Subrius, "to come to the point that immediately concerns us. We
have to reckon with an exceptional state of things. For the present, as I said,
law is suspended. We can't reckon on the guardians of the peace; nor, so
occupied is every one with saving themselves or their property, on the help of
the public. And supposing that this house catches fire, what then? Just now it
is not in danger; but who can tell what may happen? The wind may change, and
then the flames might be down upon it in an hour. Or it may be deliberately set
on fire. That, if I can trust my own eyes, is being done elsewhere. What would
happen then? Depend upon it, Poppæa and the villains that do her bidding will
be watching their opportunity, and what a terrible chance they would have of
working their will amidst all the confusion of a burning house. That is my view
of the situation."
"What, then, would you
advise?" asked Pomponia in a tone that betrayed no agitation or alarm.
"I should say—seek
some safer place," replied Subrius.
[86] "For
myself," said Pomponia after a pause, "I should be disposed to stay
where I am."
"But, dearest
aunt," cried Lateranus, "if what Subrius says is true, and I do not
doubt for an instant that it is, that means certain death."
"And if it does, dear
Aulus," replied Pomponia, "that does not seem so dreadful to
me."
"But there are
others," said Lateranus.
"You are right,"
Pomponia answered after a few minutes' reflection; "there are others. I
should like, if it will not offend you, gentlemen, to ask for the counsel of
one whom I greatly trust."
She pressed her hand-bell,
and when the attendant appeared, said to him, "I would speak with Phlegon,
if he is at leisure."
In the course of a short
time, Phlegon, a Greek freedman, who was the superintendent of Pomponia's
household, made his appearance. He was a man of singularly venerable
appearance, nearly eighty years of age, but hale and vigorous.
"Phlegon," said
Pomponia, "these gentlemen are agreed that if we stay here our lives are
not safe, and they counsel us to flee. What say you? My feeling is for staying.
Are we not ready? Have we not been living for twenty years past as if this
might come any day? And does not the holy Paul say in that letter of which
Clemens of Philippi (Footnote: Phil. I: 23. The
Epistle to the Philippians is supposed to have been written from
"True, lady,"
said Phlegon; "but he goes on, if I remember right, 'But to abide in the
flesh is more needful for you.' And you have others to think of, as he had. And
did not the Master Himself say, 'When they persecute you in one city, flee ye
to another'?"
"You are right, as
usual, Phlegon," said Pomponia. "I will go; but whither? As you know,
nephew," she went on, turning to Aulus, "I have sold all my country
houses, as my husband's will directed me, except, indeed, the one at
Antium."
"Well," said
Lateranus, "it would hardly do for you to have Poppæa for a neighbour. But
all my villas are at your disposal. There is one at
"Ah," said
Subrius, laughing, "you never are able to go
through the list of your country houses without stumbling. But I have an idea
of my own for which I venture to think something may be said. There is a place
belonging to me near Gabii. It can hardly be called a country house, it is so
small, but it has, for the present purpose, some advantages. In the first
place, it is very much out of the way; and in the second, it is very strong. In
fact, it is an old fortress, dating back, I have been told by people who are
[88] learned in these matters, from the time of the Kings. It has a deep moat
all round it, crossed only by a single bridge which can be removed at pleasure,
and the walls are high and strong. In short, it is a place that would stand a
siege, if need be. Anyhow, it is safe against a surprise. If the Lady Pomponia
can put up with a very poor place and mean accommodation, the house, such as it
is, is entirely at her service."
"An admirable
plan!" cried Lateranus. "What say you, my dear aunt? I know that you
do not set much store on outward things."
"No, indeed, I do
not," replied Pomponia. "The offer of the Tribune Subrius I most
gladly accept, but how to thank him sufficiently I do not know."
"There is no need of
thanks, lady," said Subrius. "I owe everything to Aulus Plautius, who
made a soldier of me when I might have been—I am not ashamed to own it—a
poltroon. Do what I may, I shall never repay the
debt."
"And when shall we
start?" asked Pomponia.
"At once, to-night, I
would suggest," answered Subrius. "The moon is nearly full, and you
will barely reach my house before it sets."
Arrangements were made
accordingly for a start that evening. Subrius would not be able to accompany
them, for he had to be on duty in the camp, and thought it as well not to ask
for leave of absence. His place was to be taken by his friend Pudens, an [89]
arrangement which would have its advantages, as the person of Pudens would not
be known. For the same reason Lateranus, one of the best known, as he was one
of the most popular men in
Punctually at sunset the
party started. The route chosen was naturally that which took them by the
shortest way out of the city. But, small as was the space which they traversed,
the sights which they encountered were harrowing in the extreme. The fire
itself, in its active force, had passed elsewhere, but it had left behind it a
hideous scene of desolation. Some of the larger buildings were still burning,
sending up huge volumes of smoke, out of which a tongue of flame would now and
then shoot forth. In some places the blackened walls stood erect, with a
ghastly semblance of the human habitation which they had once contained; in
others everything had fallen prostrate in undistinguishable confusion on the
[90] ground. Here and there an arch or portico tottered to its fall in a way
that threatened the passer-by with instant destruction. Sometimes the traveller
could see the pathetic remnant of a ruined home which by some strange chance
the flames had spared, a hearth with the chairs still standing about it, a
table spread with the remnants of a meal, a picture on a wall, a draught-board
left just as the players had started up from it in their alarm, a harp, a
baby's cradle. Now and then they came across the corpse of some unhappy inmate
who had been struck by a falling stone, or half buried under some huge beam.
There had not been time to remove these ghastly remains, or the calamity was so
overpowering that men had lost their respect for the remains of the
dead,—always one of the worst signs of a general despair. In many places poor
creatures who had lost their all were groping among the yet smoking ruins for
any possession of a more durable kind that might have survived or escaped the
ravages of the flames. Elsewhere, sufferers too broken by their loss to make
any effort, sat by the smouldering remains of what had once been a happy home,
in a mute and tearless despair. Outside the walls, the scene, though deplorable
enough, was yet diversified with a more cheerful element. Groups of people,
surrounded many of them by a strange and incongruous medley of possessions
which they had contrived to rescue from the flames, were camping out round
fires which they had [91] lighted. Many were cooking their evening meal; some
were staring motionless into the flames; not a few, with the irrepressible
gayety of a southern nature, were singing merry songs or joining in some
uproarious chorus.
The sight of all this
distress so affected the compassionate heart of Pomponia that she could
scarcely be induced to pass on. It was not, indeed, till she had exhausted all
the stock of money that she had brought with her, in relieving what seemed the
most urgent cases of need, that she could be persuaded to continue her journey.
It was, perhaps, well for her comfort that Phlegon, who was more prudent, though
not less kindly than his mistress, made a point of keeping a secret store,
which he produced when everything seemed exhausted. On this occasion, when
banking, in common with all other business was suspended, this resource was
found particularly useful.
The party had left
"Oh, mother!"
cried Claudia, who had begun to use this endearing name to the elder lady,
"do you think that this is the end of the world that is come?"
[92] "Nay, my
daughter; there is much to happen before that can be."
"But is
"Truly, my daughter;
yet the Lord hath much people there, and will have more before the end shall
come."
Both felt it to be a relief
when another turn of the road hid again the terrible spectacle. Both turned their
eyes southward, where the stars were beginning to come out in the dark purple
depths of the summer night. Another half-hour's journey brought them without
further adventure to their journey's end.
PUDENS
[93] THE young soldier whom Subrius had put
in charge of the party had fulfilled his office with a punctilious observance
of his military duty. There was probably little or no danger to be apprehended
after the party had once got beyond the precincts of
His hopes were not
disappointed. The ladies indeed were helped out of the litters by their own
attendants, and he felt that it would have been an intrusion for him to come
forward; still it was natural that he should be near, and chance favoured him
with a full view of the unknown traveller. Just as the younger woman stepped
from her litter, the moon shone through the clouds that had obscured it during
the latter part of the journey, and fell full upon her face, and on a lock of
long, light-coloured hair that had escaped from its fastening, and fallen upon
her shoulder. In an instant his mind was illuminated with a flash of recognition
and recollection. If confirmation had been wanted, it would have been supplied
by the tone of her voice, as she chanced to address to Pomponia a few words
expressive of delight at the safe termination of their journey.
"Great Jupiter!"
said Pudens to himself, "it is Claudia!"
In the surprise of the
moment the words were spoken half aloud. The girl, catching the sound of her
name, and equally taken by surprise, half turned, but recollected herself
before the action was com- [95] pleted. But the gesture showed outlines of
figure and a pose that were familiar to the young man, as he stood, himself
almost invisible in the shadow, eagerly watching the scene.
It is now time for me to
explain to my readers who Pudens was, and how he came to have made acquaintance
with the Princess from
Annius Pudens was the son
of a man who had the reputation of being the very richest member of the
wealthiest class in
The elder Pudens had one
great object always before him, and this was to give his son all that was
desirable in life; one, I say, because this was really the motive of that
devotion to money-making, which was commonly believed to be his ruling passion.
For this son, an only child, left motherless in early infancy, nothing was too
good, nothing too costly. Unfortunately, the father, who was a man of limited
intelligence and feeble judgment, except in the one matter of money-making, set
about securing his object in the very worst fashion imaginable. He knew that
money can do much, and he imagined that it can do everything. He believed that
he could furnish his child with all that he ought to have if he only paid
enough for it. Himself a man of frugal and even parsimonious habits,—the common
pleasures of life had no attractions for him,—he gave the child [97] the very
costliest establishment that could be purchased for money. For the nurses who
attended to his wants when he was an infant, the slaves who waited on him in
his boyhood, he gave the highest possible prices, and thought that in giving
them he was necessarily securing the best of service. And he had, it must be
owned, some ill luck in efforts that were really well meant. A friend had told
him that slaves were not to be trusted, and he put a lady of respectable family
over his son's establishment. Unfortunately, she was a selfish, unprincipled
woman, whose only object was to make a purse for herself
and to secure an easy life by indulging her young charge. A still more fatal
mistake was the choice of a tutor. A smooth-tongued Greek, who concealed under
a benign and even venerable exterior almost every vice of which humanity is
capable, palmed himself off upon the credulous father, and was installed as the
"guide, philosopher, and friend" of the unlucky son.
Happily for himself, the younger Pudens had a nature that refused to be
entirely spoiled. He had an innate refinement that shrunk from the worst
excesses, a kindly and unselfish temper that kept his heart from being utterly
hardened by indulgences, a taste for sport and athletics that gave him plenty
of harmless and healthy employment, and a love of letters which commonly
secured for study some part of his days and nights.
Still he was on the high
road to ruin, when, just as [98] he was entering on his nineteenth year, he
lost his father. Happily, the elder Pudens, in appointing a guardian for his
son, had for once made a wise choice. He had asked Subrius, who was a distant
kinsman, to accept the office, and the Prætorian had consented, little thinking
that he should ever be called upon to act, for indeed the testator was little
older than himself. When he found that his guardianship had become an actual
responsibility, he acted with vigour. He seized the opportunity when the son
was under the softening impression of his recent loss, and used it with the
very best effect. He avoided anything like rebuke, but appealed to the young
man's pride and to his adventurous spirit, as well as to the momentary disgust
at his useless and discreditable existence which had come over him. Active
service as a soldier was the remedy which Subrius prescribed, and, if the
expression may be allowed, lost no time in administering. Almost before the
young Pudens could reflect, he was on his way to join as a volunteer the army
of
His career was very near
being cut short before he reached his destination. The galley which was to
convey him from Gaul to the port of Regnum encountered a violent gale from the
southwest on its way, was driven on to the Needles, then, as now, one of the
most dangerous spots on the southern coast, [99] and dashed in pieces. The only
survivors of the wreck were Pudens and two young sailors. He owed his life to
his vigorous frame and to his power of swimming; powers well known on the
Campus, where he had been accustomed to distance all competitors, sometimes
crossing the
Cogidumnus, the native
ruler, a far-sighted prince, who had discovered that the friendship of
|
|
These gloomy tidings
reached Regnum in the early morning, just as Pudens was about to start. The
King was intending to ride with his guest for the first stage of his journey, a
stage which would take him across the
"Camalodunum has
been destroyed. Boadicea will enter Londinium in a few hours. I have heard
nothing of Paulinus. Save yourself."
In the course of about half
an hour the messenger, [101] who was a well-trained and practised runner, had
recovered sufficiently to be able to tell what he knew. Suetonius, he said, had
returned, and had actually marched into Londinium, but had evacuated it again,
feeling that he was not strong enough to hold it. He had about ten thousand men
with him, less by nearly a half than what he had expected to put into the
field, because,—so the messenger had heard,—the commanding officer of the
Second Legion had refused to leave his quarters. Paulinus, accordingly, had
occupied a strong position to the north of the city, and had left Londinium to
its fate. Of what had happened since his departure the messenger could not
speak with certainty, but looking back when he reached the highest point of the
range now known as the Hog's Back, he had seen a great glare of light in the
northeastern sky, and did not doubt that Londinium was in flames.
The King was perfectly
aware of the gravity of the situation. Verulamium, situated as it was little
more than twenty miles from Londinium, would probably be the next object of
attack; after that his own turn would come. In the meantime, what was to be
done? The King's natural impulse was to make the best preparations that he
could for defending Regnum. He had begun to make a hasty calculation of what
was wanted and of what he had at his command, when the Princess showed herself
in a character that fairly astonished the young Roman.
[102] "Father!"
she cried, "it is idle to think of our defending
ourselves here. If Paulinus cannot stand against Boadicea and her army, how
shall we do it, when we shall be left alone with all
Pudens was not unaccustomed
to see precocity in his own country-women. Roman girls began to think and talk
of love and lovers before they were well in their teens. But this clear and
vigorous intelligence, this ready comprehension of affairs in one who seemed
little more than a child, surprised him beyond measure. The advice itself
seemed admirable, and he seconded it with all his might, offering at the same
time his own services in any capacity in which they might be made useful. The
upshot of the matter was that in the course of the day an advance force of some
hundreds of men started to join the Roman army. The King himself was to follow
as speedily as possible with the remainder of his available troops; Claudia,
with her attendants, was put for safety on board a galley in the harbour, the captain
having instructions to make for a port in Gaul in case any disaster should
happen. She accepted the situation with a practical good sense which impressed
Pudens almost as much as her spirit and promptitude had done before.
He did not see her again.
He started that even- [103] ing, and was able to reach the camp of Paulinus
before the great battle which may be said to have settled the fate of
[104] It
is easy to believe that as he rode slowly back to the city that night, leaving
some half-dozen trusty men to protect the house, the familiar image presented
itself to his thoughts more vividly than ever.
AN IMPERIAL MUSICIAN
[105] NERO, as my readers will have guessed,
had not been able to keep his secret. The audacity of his plan—an Emperor
setting his own capital on fire that he might rebuild it after his own
designs—had inspired him with a delight that quite exceeded his powers of
self-control. He could not help letting drop hints of his purpose in the
presence of Poppæa, and these were further explained by words which she
overheard him muttering in his sleep. Tigellinus, though no confidences were
made to him, was equally well aware of what his master intended. No department
in the public service but contained some of his creatures, and the secret
instructions that the Emperor gave to the commanding officers of the watch,
summoned, it should be said, to Antium for the purpose of receiving them, did
not long escape him. The despot's two councillors were rendered, as may readily
be supposed, not a little anxious by their master's frantic caprice. Both were
ready enough to use it for their own purposes. Poppæa, as we have seen, found
in it, as she hoped, an opportunity of destroying Pomponia; while Tigellinus
had grudges [106] of his own to pay off under cover of the general terror and
confusion. But they could not help feeling great apprehensions of the effect on
the popular feeling. An Emperor might murder and confiscate as much as he
pleased, so long as it was only the noble and wealthy who suffered; but when
his oppression began to touch common folk, the trader or the artisan, then
danger was at hand. If the Romans began to suspect that they had been burnt out
of their homes to gratify a caprice of their ruler, not all his legions would
be able to save him.
The anxiety of Nero's
advisers was greatly increased by his obstinacy in refusing to go to
Tigellinus ventured on a
strong remonstrance.
"Pardon me,
Sire," he said, "if I say that the Roman people will take your
absence at this time very ill. It has pleased the gods"—he was careful, it
will be seen, not to hint that he knew the truth—"to visit them with a
great calamity, and they will expect some sympathy and
help from him whom they regard as a god upon earth. No ruler could endure to be
away when the seat of Empire is in flames, much less one who
is justly styled the Father of his Country."
The advice, sugared though
it was with flattery, was decidedly unpalatable. Nero's brow darkened, as he
listened, with the frown that always gathered [107] upon it when any one
ventured to hint that there were any limitations on his power, or that he could
be called to account by any one for the way in which he exercised it.
"What do you
say?" he cried, with an angry stamp of the foot. "A pretty thing,
indeed, that a father should be called to account by his children! Who will
venture to say whether I ought to go or to stay?"
In the course of the second
day news arrived that the palace itself was in danger. If Tigellinus hoped that
this intelligence would move the Emperor he was greatly disappointed. Nero
received the tidings with what appeared to be complete indifference.
"A paltry place,"
he cried with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, "and not in the least
worthy of an Emperor! Let it burn, and welcome! I shall be saved the trouble of
pulling it down. And besides," he added with a laugh, "the people about whom you think so much, my Tigellinus, will
surely be satisfied now. What can they want more than to see my house burning
as well as their own?"
Tigellinus was in despair.
So imperious was the necessity that he was meditating another remonstrance,
which yet he felt would probably do nothing more than endanger his own head,
when Poppæa's woman's wit suggested a way out of the difficulty.
"What a spectacle it
must be!" she said to Tigellinus in a low tone that was yet carefully
modulated to catch the Emperor's ear. "All
Nero fell promptly into the
trap. "You are right, my soul," he cried. "It must be a splendid
sight, and I am losing it. Why did you not think of it before? Tigellinus, we
will start at once. There is not a moment to be lost."
The Emperor's impatience to
be gone, now that the idea had been suggested to him, was as great as his
indifference had been before. He would allow no time for the preparations for
departure. The slaves would follow, he said, with what was wanted. Too much of
the sight had been lost already. "Good Heavens!" he cried, "what
a fool I have been! The finest spectacle of the age, and I am not there to see
it!"
Within an hour's time he
was on horseback, and was riding at full speed northward, accompanied by
Tigellinus and by such an escort as could hastily be got ready. Poppæa followed
in a carriage as rapidly as she could.
The distance between Antium
and
The palace was not, it was
found, in immediate danger. All the efforts of the Watch and of two cohorts of
Prætorians, which had been called in to help them, had been directed to saving
it. How long it would escape was doubtful. If the wind, which had lulled a
little, were to rise again, its destruction was certain.
The Emperor would have been
disappointed if this destruction had been finally averted. We have seen that
one of the great features of the new
"A spectacle," he
thought to himself, "and if so, why not a performance? What a splendid
opportunity! We always feel that there is something of a sham in the scenery of
a theatre, but here it will be real. An actual city on fire! What could be more
magnificent? I have it," he went on after a pause. "Of course it must
be the Sack of Troy. What a pity it is that I did not think of it
sooner, and I might have written something worthy of the occasion. The [111] Lesser
Iliad is but poor stuff, but we must make
the best of it."
This grotesque intention
was actually carried out.
The first care of the
Emperor on reaching the palace was to have a rehearsal of his contemplated
performance. If there were any cares of Empire pressing for attention,—and it
may be supposed that the ruler of the civilized world returning to his capital
had some business to attend to,—they were put aside. The rest of the day Nero
spent in practising upon the harp some music of his own composition, while a
Greek freedman recited from the Lesser Iliad a passage in which
the sack and burning of Troy were related.
In the evening the performance
took place. A large semicircular room in the upper story of the palace,
commanding from its windows a wide prospect of the city, was hastily fitted up
into the rude semblance of a theatre. An audience, which mainly consisted of
the Emperor's freedmen and of officers of the Prætorian Guard, sat on chairs
ranged round the curve of the chamber. In front of them was the extemporized
stage, while the burning city, seen through the windows, formed, with huge
masses of smoke and flame, such a background as the most skilful and audacious
of scene-painters had never conceived. The performance had been purposely
postponed till a late hour in the evening, and no lights were permitted in the
room. On the stage were the [112] two figures, the reciter and the Imperial
musician, now thrown strongly into relief as some great sheet of flame burst
out in the background, and then, as it died away again, becoming almost
invisible. An undertone of confused sound accompanied the music throughout.
Every now and then the voice of the reciter and the notes of the harp were lost
in some shrill cry of agony or the thunderous crash of a falling house. Seldom
in the history of the world has there been a stranger mixture of the ludicrous
and the terrible than when "Nero fiddled while
At one time it was not
unlikely that this strange farce might have been turned into a genuine tragedy.
Subrius was one of the Prætorian officers invited to witness the performance,
and chance had placed him close to the stage. Again and again as the Emperor
moved across it, intent upon his music, and certainly unsuspicious of danger,
he came within easy reach of the Tribune's arm.
"Shall I strike?"
he whispered into the ear of Lateranus, who sat by his side. "I can hardly
hope for a better chance."
Probably a prompt assent
from his companion would have decided him; but Lateranus felt unequal to giving
it. He was staggered by the suddenness of the idea. The decision was too
momentous, the responsibility too great. Was it right to act without the
knowledge of the other conspirators? Then [113] nothing had been prepared. Nero
might be killed, but no arrangements had been made for presenting a successor
to the soldiers and to the people. Finally, there was the immediate danger to themselves. It would indeed be a memorable deed to strike
down this unworthy ruler in the very act of disgracing the people, to strike
him down before the eyes of the creatures who flattered and fawned on him. But
could they who did it hope to escape? "The desire of escape," says
the historian who relates the incident, "is
always the foe of great enterprises," and it checked that night a deed
which might have changed the course of history. (Footnote:
The words of Tacitus are: "It is said that Subrius Flavius had formed the
sudden resolution of attacking Nero when singing on the stage, or when his
house was in flames, and he was running hither and thither unattended in the
darkness. In the one case was the opportunity of solitude; in the other, the
very crowd which would witness so glorious a deed had roused a singularly noble
soul; it was only the desire of escape, that foe to all great enterprises, that held him back." I have preferred to
attribute the hesitation to Subrius' companion.)
"No!" whispered
Lateranus in reply, "it is too soon; nothing, you know, is ready. We shall
not fail to find another opportunity."
Half reluctant, half
relieved, Subrius abandoned his half-formed purpose. But he could not rid
himself of the feeling that he had missed a great chance.
"Do you believe in
inspirations?" he asked his friend, as they were making their way to the
camp, where Lateranus was his guest.
[114] "I hardly
know," replied the other. "Perhaps there are such things. But, on the
whole, men find it safer to act after deliberation."
"Well," said
Subrius, "if ever I felt an inspiration, it was to-night when I whispered
to you. I fear much that we shall never have so fair a chance again."
"But nothing was
ready," urged his companion.
"True," replied
Subrius; "but then one does not prepare for such an enterprise as this as
one prepares for a campaign."
"And
the risk?"
"True,
the risk. It is
not that one is afraid to venture one's life; but one wants to see the fruit of
one's deed. Yet I much misdoubt me whether this is not a fatal weakness. One
ought to do the right thing at the time, and think of nothing else. If Cassius
Ch?rea had taken any thought for his own safety, he
would never have slain the monster Caius. I feel that hereafter we shall be
sorry for what we have done, or, rather, not done, to-day."
(Footnote:
Nero is said to have recited or accompanied the recitation of a poem
(presumably Greek, as the title is given in that language) which was called the
Capture of Troy .
What this was we have no means of knowing, except that it was probably the work
of one of the Cyclic poets, the poets, that is, who completed the Cycle
of the story of the siege and capture of Troy, a story of which Homer tells a
small portion only. None of these survive except in fragments. The poems on the
subject that still exist are of a date later than Nero. The oldest of them is
probably that of Dictys Cretensis. Curiously enough this is said to have been
discovered in Nero's reign, in an ancient tomb in Crete (Dictys himself was
said to have been a follower of Idomeneus, King of Crete, to have gone with him
to the seige of Troy, and to have written the story of the siege), to have been
presented to the Emperor, and to have been translated by his order from the Ph?nician, in which it was written, into Greek. The late
Professor Ramsay thought that, though of course a forgery, it was a forgery of
this date. The date, however, is later in Nero's reign than the time of my
story.)
A GREAT BRIBE
[116] THE fire continued to devour its prey
almost without let or hindrance. Even before the end of the performance
described in my last chapter it had come so near that the heat could be
distinctly felt by the spectators. Nero, whose ambition it was to imitate the
imperturbable self-possession of a great actor, affected to be unconscious of
what everybody else felt to be inconvenient, if not alarming. He gave the whole
of the piece down to the very last flourish or roulade, and, when at last it was concluded, came forward
again and again to receive the applause which a clique of duly
practised flatterers did not fail time after time to renew.
In spite, however, of this
seeming composure, the Emperor was seriously agitated. The fire was a monster
which he had created, but which he could not control. It did not limit its
ravages to what he wished to see swept away. Even the most reckless of rulers
could not view with total indifference the destruction of relics of antiquity
which he knew that his subjects regarded with universal reverence. The damage
indeed was incredibly great. It may be said, [117] in fact, that all ancient
Active exertions were now
taken to check the conflagration. On the sixth day a huge gap was made by the
destruction of a great block of buildings at the foot of the
Eager as he was to commence
the building of a new and more splendid
The sufferers, of course,
had to be fed as well as lodged. The gratuitous distributions of corn, which it
was customary to make, were more frequent and more extensive, for there was a
total suspension of business, and many who were not usually pensioners on the
bounty of the State had to be relieved. To meet the case of those who were too
independent to receive alms, and yet were scarcely above the need of them, the
price of corn was lowered by a subvention to the merchants from the Emperor's
purse. Wheat became cheap beyond all precedent, a bushel being sold for two
shillings. The wealthy nobles, either from compassion for the sufferers, or,
where this was wanting, at a peremptory suggestion from Nero, supplemented the
Emperor's bounty by a copious distribution of gifts. These gifts were always common,
even respectable people condescending to supplement their income by what they
received from the great houses to which they were attached by the tie of
clientship; now they became more frequent and more extensive, and were on a
much more liberal scale.
The enormous operations of
clearing away the ruins and building a new city furnished an immense amount of
employment and stimulated trade; in fact, in one way or another, put a great
deal of money in circulation. But, in addition to food, shelter, and [120]
employment, the people wanted another thing, if they were to be kept in good
humour, and that was amusement. In furnishing this Nero consulted his own
tastes as well as his interests. As soon as was possible, and even while much
that would have been thought far more necessary yet remained to be done, Nero
made preparations to give a grand entertainment, the splendour of which could
not fail, he hoped, to put Rome into a good humour. It is quite possible that
from his point of view he was right. The passion of the populace for these
great shows was boundless. Of the two things for which they were said to have
bartered their freedom, gratuitous food and gratuitous spectacles, the latter
was the more coveted.
The solid structure of the
great Circus had, as has been said, resisted the fire. What had perished was
hastily renewed, and no pains or money, scarce as money was at a time of such
vast expenditure, was spared in collecting ample materials for exhibition.
Gladiators were, of course, abundant, and gladiators were always the staple of
a popular show. Give the Roman spectator bloodshed enough and he could not fail
to be satisfied. Of the curiosities of the Circus, as they may be called, the
rare beasts, the performing animals, and the like, there was a less plentiful
supply. Many had been destroyed in the fire, and substitutes could not be
provided in a hurry; still a cer- [121] tain number were available. The
menageries of the great provincial towns were swept bare to supply this sudden
demand from the capital, and private owners were eager to do their best to
supply an Imperial customer, who paid well for what he bought, and had a way of
taking by force what he wanted, if the persuasion of a large price was not
enough.
The day of exhibition was
in the latter end of September, somewhat less than three months, i.e.; after the catastrophe of the fire. It had not been
possible to make the arrangements sooner, and indeed the Romans preferred the
spring and autumn weather for their great shows. The more temperate weather
suited the spectators better than did either the cold of winter or the extreme
heat of summer. Everything favoured the spectacle. The day was both cloudless
and windless, both circumstances that contributed to its success. Nothing,
indeed, could have been finer than the sight of the vast building filled from
end to end with a crowd of spectators, the men wearing spotless white gowns and
crowned with garlands of flowers, the women habited in a rich variety of
colours. The effect of the sun shining through the red and purple awning that
was stretched over the heads of the people was itself very striking.
The show began, as usual,
with the exhibition of rare and beautiful animals. Bloodshed, as has been said,
was the staple of the entertainment; but as the hors d'?uvres, the
soup, the fish, and the various [122] dishes lead up to the pieces de
resistance in a banquet, so the appetite of the Roman public was
whetted with various curiosities before it was allowed to reach the great
business of the day. Ostriches, whose white plumage
was dyed with vermilion, for the false taste of the Romans was not satisfied
with nature, lions with gilded manes, and antelopes and gazelles, curiously
adorned with light-colored scarves and gold tinsel, trooped in succession
across the arena, each under the charge of its keeper. The tameness of some of
these animals was wonderful. If one could not praise the art with which it had
been sought to heighten their natural beauty of form and hue, yet the skill
with which their innate savagery and wildness had been subdued was truly
admirable. Lions yoked with tigers, and panthers harnessed with bears, were
seen drawing carriages with all the docility of the horse. Wild bulls were
seen, now permitting boys and girls to dance upon their backs, and now, at the
word of command, standing erect on their hind legs. A still more wonderful
sight was when a lion hunted a hare, caught it, and carried it in its mouth,
unhurt, to its master. This performance, indeed, brought down a tremendous
round of applause. Nero summoned the trainer of the lion to his seat, and
praised him highly for his skill. The man answered him with a compliment which
may fairly be described as having been as neat as it was false. "It is no
skill of mine, my lord," he said, "that has worked [123] this marvel;
the beast is gentle because he knows how gentle is the
Emperor whom he serves."
Gentleness, certainly, was
not the prevailing characteristic of the sports that followed. A Roman's
curiosity and love of the marvellous were easily satisfied. Of fighting he
never could have enough. He loved best to do it himself,—it is but justice to
say so much for him,—and next he loved to see others do it. The first kind of combat
exhibited was of beast against beast. A dog of the Molossian breed, much the
same as our mastiff, a breed famous then, as now, for strength and courage, was
matched with a bull, and came off victorious. A lion was pitted against a
tiger, but proved to be far inferior not only in courage, but in strength. A
combat between a bull and a rhinoceros was a great disappointment to the
spectators, who expected a novel sensation from combatants which, as far as was
known, had never contended together before. First, the rhinoceros was very
reluctant to engage with his adversary. Amidst yells and shouts of derision
from the crowd he retreated into his cage. It was only after hot iron had been
applied to its hide, the extraordinary thickness of which resisted the application
of the goad, and trumpets had been blown into its ears, that the creature was
induced to advance. And then the conflict, when it did take place, was of the
very briefest. The bull, a naturally savage animal, who had been goaded into
madness by fluttering pennons of red [124] and by the pricks of spears, rushed
furiously forward to vent its rage, after the manner of its kind, on the first
object that it saw. The rhinoceros lifted its head and sent the bull flying
into the air as easily as if it had been a truss of straw. When the bull came
to the ground, it was absolutely dead, its enemy's horn having pierced a vital
part.
Another novel spectacle, a
lion matched against a crocodile, was scarcely more successful. The lion
approached its strange antagonist, and laid hold of it, but rather it seemed
from curiosity than from anger. A short inspection seemed to satisfy the beast
that the strange, scaly creature was not a desirable or even possible prey.
Loosing his hold, he carelessly turned away, and cantered round the arena,
glaring in a very alarming way through the grating which separated him from the
lowest tier of spectators. As for the crocodile, whatever its intentions, it
was helpless. Its movements on land were far too cumbrous to allow it to force
a battle on its antagonist.
When the wild beast show
had been finished there was an interval for refreshment. The Emperor, anxious
to please the multitude, had provided for the gratuitous distribution of an
immense quantity of food. Slaves carrying huge baskets of loaves were followed
by others with baskets, equally huge, of sausages. Almost every one who cared
to have his food supplied in this way was able to get it for noth- [125] ing.
Wine was not absolutely given away, but it was sold at a rate so cheap that the
poorest spectator could purchase enough or even more than enough. The smallest
coin, an as, equivalent to something less than a half-penny, could
purchase half a sextarius—a sextarius may be taken as
roughly equivalent to a pint—of very fair liquor, rough, of course, but
well-bodied and sound, and far superior to the posca or diluted
vinegar which formed the staple drink of the lowest class. When the exhibition
recommenced, about two hours after
The first exhibition of the
afternoon was a chariot-race. The competing chariots were kept in a set of
chambers, technically called "prisons," which were furnished with
folding doors that opened out on to the race-course. When the presiding officer
gave the usual signal for starting by dropping a napkin, slaves who were told
off to perform this office simultaneously opened the doors of the
"prisons," and the chariots, which were standing ready for a start
within, made the best of their way out. In theory this was as fair a method of
proceeding as possible; but in practise difficulties arose. The slaves did not
always work with absolute uniformity. It was whispered that they were sometimes
bribed to bungle over their task; and as the business of racing, and especially
horse-racing, has always given occasion to a great deal of rascality, the
suspicion was probably well- [126] founded. On the present occasion there was
certainly a hitch which may or may not have been accidental, but which certainly
caused a great amount of irritation among the spectators. The doors of one of
the "prisons" stuck fast for a few moments, and the chariot inside
had, in consequence, a most unfavourable start. As the driver was a special
favourite with the people, wore the most popular colours, and had the
reputation of never having been beaten in a fair race, this contretemps was received with a perfect howl of execration. Man
and horses did their best as soon as they were able to get away; chariot after
chariot was passed, till of the six that had started, only one was left to
vanquish. But this competitor could not be overtaken. He had got a start of
nearly half a lap out of the seven which made up the course; and as he was a
skilful driver, with an excellent team of horses, this advantage gave him the
victory. For a moment, indeed, the race seemed undecided. Just as the two
remaining competitors, all other rivals having by this time been distanced,
were nearing the turning-point in the last lap, the charioteer who had been so
unluckily delayed made a supreme effort to secure the advantage of the nearer
curve. In his excitement he used the lash too freely. The spirited animal which
he struck resented the blow, and swerved so violently as to throw the
charioteer. The man burst into tears of vexation and rage, due at least as much
to the feeling of self- [127] reproach as to vexation at his ill-fortune. Not
even the purse of gold which Nero threw to him, nor
the sympathizing cries from his friends among the crowd, consoled him.
|
|
After this everything
seemed to go wrong. When the gladiators came on the scene, which they did
immediately after the decision of the chariot-race, the popular favourite was
almost uniformly unlucky. A veteran net-fighter, who had been victorious in a
hundred battles, and who was accustomed to charm the spectators by the easy
dexterity with which he would entangle his adversary, made an unlucky slip as
he was throwing his net, and was stabbed to the heart by a mere tyro, who had
never before appeared in the arena. Another old favourite, a mirmillo, from
some unaccountable cause lost his nerve, when confronted with an active young
Thracian, in whom he had not expected to find a formidable enemy, and having
delivered to no purpose his favourite stroke, actually turned to fly. The
populace, forgetting as usual the poor fellow's many successes, expressed its
disapprobation by an angry howl, and when the fugitive was struck down,
absolutely refused to spare his life.
When at last the show was
over, when the dead, of whom some thirty lay on the sand, had been examined by
an attendant habited as Charon, ferryman of the Styx, and removed under the
superintendence of another official who bore the wand of Hermes the Conductor
of Souls, the irritation of the populace [128] broke forth in angry cries
levelled against no less a personage than the Emperor himself. The Circus, it
must be remembered, was the place where something of the old liberty of the
Roman people still remained. There it was still permitted to them to express
their wants and their dislikes. The Emperors, despotic as they were, were
prudent enough to allow a safety-valve for a discontent which, if always
suppressed, might have become really dangerous; nor were they averse to thus
learning without the intervention of others what their humbler subjects really
thought and felt. On this occasion there was a really formidable manifestation
of feeling. Loud cries of "Incendiary!" "
A SCAPEGOAT
[129] ON the evening of the day of the great
show just described, Nero was again deep in consultation with his two advisers.
He had been profoundly impressed by the manifestations of popular feeling that
he had that day witnessed in the Circus. Hitherto he had been, on the whole, in
spite of his follies and excesses, a popular Emperor. The nobility hated him,
not without cause, for the most illustrious among them could not feel that
property or life were safe under his rule. The small party of independent
patriots, which a hundred and twenty years of despotic rule had left, loathed
and despised the young mountebank who was squandering away all the resources,
and tarnishing all the glories of
No direct reference was
made to the immediate occasion of the consultation either by the Emperor or by
his advisers. It was not etiquette to suppose that any one would venture to
utter injurious words against the Augustus, the Master of Rome, the equal of gods. The same silence was observed as to the
real truth about the fire. Nero, as we have seen, had not been able to keep his
own secret; he had even gone the length, in moments of abandonment, of boasting
of his deed, and that to both of the persons present; but nevertheless both he
and they agreed in speaking of it as a disastrous event of which the cause was
yet to be discovered.
The Emperor opened the
discussion:—
"Tigellinus," he
said, "the gods have visited
[131] "Sire,"
said Tigellinus, "I have inquired of the Triumvirs, (Footnote: The Triumviri Capitales were three
subordinate judges, who combined the functions of public magistrates and
sheriffs.) and they tell me that they have in custody
twenty or thirty wretches who were caught, red-handed, spreading the fire. Some
of them were also convicted of robbery, and some of murder. What say you, Sire,
to having a public execution of these malefactors? They might suffer together,
and the spectacle might be made sufficiently imposing to satisfy the just
indignation of the people."
The proposition was made
and received with a perfect gravity which did credit to the power of acting
possessed by the speaker and his hearers.
Nero affected to meditate.
The real thought in his mind was that some of the victims might make awkward
revelations. What he said was this:—
"The punishment,
however exemplary, of some score of incendiaries, will not suffice. If it had
been the case of some provincial municipality destroyed, it might have been
otherwise. Is it not possible that the enemies of the Roman people, the
Parthians or the Germans, have plotted the destruction of the seat of
Empire?"
"The Parthians,
Sire," returned Tigellinus with an air of profound humility, "are
just now our very good friends, and whether they are
guilty or not, it would be inconvenient to accuse them. We must begin by
seizing the young Princes whom we have as hos- [132] tages, and this would most
certainly be followed by war."
"But Corbulo and my
legions would be more than a match for these barbarians," replied the
Emperor haughtily.
"True, Sire, most
true," said the vizier with a sarcasm not wholly concealed by the
deference with which it was veiled. "But Corbulo thinks that another
campaign would not now be for the advantage of the Empire."
The speaker's real meaning
was that the military successes of Corbulo made him at least as formidable to
his master as to the enemy, and that it would not be politic to give him another
opportunity of increasing them.
Nero, who was quick enough
to know where his real danger lay, nodded his acquiescence.
"And the
Germans?" he said after a pause.
Tigellinus slightly
shrugged his shoulders. "That hardly seems probable. Those thick-witted
barbarians can scarcely have devised such a plot."
A period of uneasy silence
followed. Tigellinus was even more impressed than was Nero with the gravity of
the situation, for he knew more of the very deep and widespread feelings to
which the cries in the Circus had given expression, and he was absolutely at a
loss for a policy. The people suspected Nero of having caused the late
disaster, and suspected him with very good reason; what reasonable [133] chance
was there of turning these suspicions in some other direction?
Suddenly a great scheme
crossed his mind. Himself of the meanest origin,
Tigellinus felt a jealous hatred for the old nobility. Not a few of the
foremost members had already fallen victims to his craft, and now he seemed to
perceive a chance of dealing the order a damaging blow.
"Sire," he began,
"it is an enemy from within, rather than an enemy from without, that has
to be dreaded. You remember the story of Catiline?"
"Surely," replied
the Emperor.
"In those days,"
went on the favourite, "a set of needy and unscrupulous nobles, beggared
by their own extravagance and luxury, plotted to overthrow the Republic, and
one of their methods was conflagration. There are the same causes still at
work,—pride, poverty, and extravagance. Where these are to be found there will
always be a Catiline. Then the play was stopped before the prologue was spoken;
now it may well be that we have had the first act."
"Is this a mere
suspicion of yours, or do you speak from knowledge?" asked the Emperor.
Before the Minister could
answer Poppæa interposed. She had a shrewd idea of what Tigellinus was aiming
at—a huge proscription of the nobles, to be brought about by working on the
suspicions of Nero, and to result in his own aggrandizement in wealth and power,
on a scale equally huge. Such a [134] scheme was not to her taste. Her own
sympathies were largely aristocratic; she prided herself on a high descent, at
least, on the mother's side. She was willing enough to join in the overthrow of
this or that noble, and to share in his spoils, but a general ruin of the order
did not suit her wishes or her plans. Among other reasons was her fear lest her
associate should become too great. At present he was willing to be her ally,
but she knew that he would like far better to be the only power behind the
throne. And she had, besides, a scheme of her own to further, and animosities
of her own to gratify.
"Sire," she
began, "there are men in
"Surely," replied
Nero. "Was not that Paulus, a Jew of Tarsus, if I remember right, a chief
man among them?"
"Yes, indeed,"
cried Poppæa; "and a most pernicious fellow, a ringleader in all their
mischievous doings! "
Poppæa, in fact, regarded
the Apostle with feelings of the strongest aversion. Not long after his arrival
at
"Ah!" said Nero,
"I always thought, my sweetest Poppæa, that you were somewhat too hard on
the poor man. You would have had me condemn him, but I really could see no harm
in him. I will allow that he did not appear to be quite in his right senses. He
talked some quite unintelligible nonsense about his Master, as he called him.
At one time he said that he was a man, and at another that he was a god. He
maintained that he had died. That seemed a great point with him, though why any
one should make so much of his Master having been crucified, it is hard to see.
And then again he insisted that he was alive. Altogether he made the strangest
jumble that I have ever heard from human lips. And he spoke Greek, I remember,
but poorly, and with a very strong accent. Still, he had the air of a learned
man, and he talked as if he really believed what he said. And certainly,
whether he was in his senses or not, I could find no harm in him. No, my
Poppæa, you were always a little unreasonable about this Paulus. If his
followers are no worse than he, there can be nothing very wrong about
them."
"Sire," replied
Poppæa, "the kindness of your heart makes you unwilling to believe the
truth. I cannot tell you a tenth part of the horrible things [137] that are
said, and I believe truly said, about these followers of Christus—Christiani
they call them."
"Surely, my
dearest," said Nero with a smile, "they are nothing worse than a new
kind of Jew, and for the Jews, you have, I know, a liking."
"Sire," said
Poppæa with no little heat, "they are as different from Jews as darkness
is different from light. They are atheists, though they worship, I believe,
some strange demons; they have no love for their country; they will not serve
in the legions; in fact, as I said, they are the enemies of mankind. And as to
the dreadful things which they do at their feasts, they are beyond belief. That
they sacrifice children, and banquet on their flesh, is among the least of the
horrors which they commit."
"Tigellinus,"
said Nero, "do you know anything about these Christians whom the Empress
seems to dislike so much?"
"They are a strange
people," replied the Minister, "who cling to their gloomy
superstition with a most invincible obstinacy. That they never sacrifice to the
gods, or even eat of the sacrifices of others, that they will not enter the
Circus or the theatre, and lead altogether a joyless life—this I know. That
they never serve in the legions can hardly be true. I heard that when you last
gave a donation to the Prætorians, and the men came to receive it, wearing
garlands on their heads, one man alone came carrying his garland in his hand.
"The law of Christus, his [138] Master," he said, "forbade him to crown himself." And to this he adhered
most inflexibly, though he not only lost his gold pieces, but was almost beaten
to death by the Centurions for disobeying orders."
"And what about these
crimes that are laid to their charge?" asked the Emperor. "Are they
really guilty of them, think you?"
"That I cannot
say," Tigellinus answered; "but that the people believe them to be
guilty I know for certain."
"And are they guilty,
think you," Nero went on, "of this wickedness concerning the
city?"
"That the people will
believe them to be guilty, I do not doubt," said Tigellinus.
Nero caught eagerly at the
idea. An obscure sect, for whom no one would feel any sympathy or compassion,
who, on the contrary, were hated by all who had heard of them,—just the victims
that he wanted.
"Doubtless,"
cried Nero, "we have found, thanks to the prudence and wisdom of the
Empress, and to my own good fortune, the real criminals. I charge you,
Tigellinus, with the care of seeing that these miscreants are properly
punished."
"It shall be done,
Sire, without delay; and that so completely that no one will have reason to
complain of slackness of justice."
It was one of the arts by
which this unscrupulous politician retained the Emperor's favour that he knew
how to yield. His own scheme he was content for [139] the present to postpone.
It would be difficult and even dangerous to execute it. It might be more safely
carried on piecemeal. Meanwhile, there was an urgent need which had to be met,
and Poppæa's scheme seemed to provide for it in the best possible manner.
Better scapegoats than these obscure sectaries, of whom few professed to know
anything, and those few nothing that was not bad, could not well be found. He
bowed his acquiescence and left the Imperial presence to devise a plan for
carrying out his orders.
THE EDICT
[140] THE young soldier Pudens had been fully
employed since we last heard of him. The work of clearing away the debris of
the fire had proved to be so vast that the ordinary supply of labour had been
insufficient to meet the demand, and the help of the soldiers had been called
in. A force, half naval and half military, which was raised from the fleets of
Ravenna and Misenum, and which indeed was accustomed to do the work of
pioneers, (Footnote: The classiarii.) was
told off for the purpose, and Pudens, partly through the interest of his friend
Subrius, was appointed to be second in command. Among the civilians employed in
the same work was an elderly man with whom he happened to be brought into
frequent contact, and whose manners and conversation interested him very much.
From some chance remark, Pudens learnt that his new acquaintance was a
freedman, who had been emancipated by Pomponia shortly after her husband's
death, and indeed in obedience to a request made in his will. The man could not
say too much in praise of his patroness, of her blameless life, her boundless
[141] charity. "They call her sad and gloomy, sir," he said, on one
occasion; "and indeed she does not care for the gayeties and pleasures of
Before long an accident
enabled him to penetrate the secret of the freedman's reserve. Returning to his
quarters one evening in the late summer, he found his friend—for such the
freedman had by this time become—in the hands of some soldiers. The spot
happened to be on the boundary of two townships, and a
statue of the god Terminus—a pedestal with a roughly carved head—had been
placed there. The men, who were half tipsy, were insisting that the
freedman—whom we may hereafter call by his name Linus—should pay his homage to
the statue; Linus was resolutely refusing to comply.
[142] "Hold!"
cried Pudens, as he appeared on the scene, knowing of course nothing of what
had happened, and only seeing a civilian in the hands of some unruly soldiers.
"Hold! what do you mean by assaulting a peaceable
citizen?"
"He is an atheist, a
Christian; he refuses to worship the gods," cried one of the men.
"Who made you a
champion of the gods?" retorted Pudens. "You are behaving more like
robbers than like god-fearing men."
"Lay hold of him, too,
comrades," shouted one of the men.
Pudens recognized the voice
of the last speaker. He was a Deputy-Centurion, who had been for a time one of
his own subordinates.
"What,
Stertinius!" he cried, "don't you know any better than to mix
yourself up in a brawl, if indeed it is not a robbery?"
Stertinius, who, like his
comrades, was not quite sober, and in his excitement had not recognized the
newcomer, was taken aback at being thus addressed by his name. The next moment
his memory returned to him.
"Hold, friends!"
he shouted to his companions; "it is the second in command of the
pioneers."
The men immediately
released their victim, and falling into line, stood at attention, and saluted.
Stertinius took it upon himself
to be their spokesman: "We are very sorry to have annoyed one of [143]
your honour's friends, and hope that you and he will overlook the
offence."
"Begone!"
cried Pudens, who had a feeling that it would be better for the freedman's sake
not to take the affair too seriously. "Begone! and
in future let your devotion to Bacchus, at least, be a little less
fervent."
When the men had
disappeared the freedman explained to his protector what had happened.
"But,"
asked Pudens, when he had heard the story, "what made the fellows behave
in this fashion to you? I presume that they don't commonly go about compelling people to do
reverence to wayside statues."
Linus hesitated for a while
before he replied to this question. "Sir," he said at last, "I
will be frank with you. I won't ask you to keep secret what I tell you. You are
not, I know, the man to betray a confidence; and, besides, there can hardly be
any question of secrecy in this matter hereafter. These men have got hold of
the notion that I do not worship the gods whom they worship. An ill-conditioned
fellow, whom I once employed, and had to discharge for his laziness and
dishonesty, told them something about me, and since then I have been very much
annoyed by them."
"I don't understand
you," said Pudens, who was quite unused to hear it treated as a serious
matter whether a man did or did not believe in the gods. He was conscious of
not believing in them himself in [144] any real sense of the words; but he went
through the usual forms of respect to their images, would put, for instance, a
portion of food before the household god, when he remembered it, and, equally
when he remembered it, would salute a wayside Mercury or Terminus. "What
do you believe in then? The Egyptian trio, or
what?"
Linus sank his voice to a
whisper: "I am a Christian," he said.
The word conveyed, it may
be said, no meaning to the young soldier. He had heard it, and that was all.
Subrius, he now remembered, had said, when he was about to introduce him to
Pomponia, "A really good woman, though they do say that she is a
Christian," but the remark had made no impression on him.
"A Christian," he
repeated. "What is that?"
"No harm,
certainly," Linus answered; "but, on the contrary, I hope much good.
One thing I have learnt from it, that there is but one God in heaven and earth,
and that all these gods, as they call them, are but vain things, or worse. But
don't suppose," he went on, "that I go out of my way to insult what
others hold in reverence. That I have not learnt to do.
Only, when any one would compel me, as those drunken soldiers would have
compelled me, to pay honour to the idols, as we call them, I cannot do it.
'Thou shalt not bow down to them nor worship them,' says my law, and I should
be false and disobedient if I did. They say dreadful things about us, sir, I
[145] know, things that it would be a shame to repeat; but they are not true,
believe me, sir, they are not true. I have done many wrong things in other
days, but my dear Lord, who died for me, has delivered me from the curse of
evil."
He uttered these last words
with a fervent earnestness which greatly impressed his hearer, though he had
scarcely even the dimmest notion of what was meant. The young man, whose heart
was touched and purified by an honest emotion which made the follies of the
past seem hateful to him, was deeply interested and eager to hear more.
In the course of the next
few weeks many conversations on the subject followed. Linus at first expressed
himself with much reserve. Already a bitter experience had taught the disciples
the need of their Master's caution, that they were not
to cast their pearls before swine. But the earnestness of the inquirer was so
manifest, he was so unmistakably absorbed in what he heard, that the freedman
soon told him all that he himself knew. He even permitted him to see what he
held to be the choicest of all his possessions, a record of the Master's life.
Pudens was half disposed to be disappointed when the treasure, kept, it was
evident, with the most elaborate care,—for three caskets, each fastened with
the most elaborate locks that the ingenuity of the age could devise, had to be
opened before it could be seen,—proved to be a parchment volume of the very
[146] plainest kind. None of the customary ornaments of a book were there. The
edges had been left in their native roughness; the knobs of the wooden pin, so
to call it, round which the parchment had been rolled, were not painted, much
less gilded. A bailiff's account-book or tradesman's ledger could not well have
had a plainer exterior. But when Linus opened the volume and read some of its
contents, there was no more disappointment. He made choice of what was most
suitable to his listener with much care. If we had the book now in our hands we
should not be able, it may be, actually to identify it with any one of the four
Gospels which we now possess. Still, it is not impossible that it may have been
an early draft of that which bears the name of St. Luke, the companion, it will
be remembered, of the long imprisonment of St. Paul, and not unreasonably
believed by many to have availed himself of this opportunity of putting
together his "narrative concerning those matters which were fully
established among" the early believers. If so, what could have been more
appropriate for the needs of the inquirer than the story of the Prodigal's
Return to his Father, of the Rich Man and the Beggar, of the Good Samaritan? As
the reader went on to other passages less easy of comprehension, Pudens began
to ask questions to which the freedman was not able to give a satisfactory
answer. "He was unlearned and ignorant," he hastened to explain,
"knowing and under- [147] standing enough to satisfy his own wants, but
not competent to explain difficulties."
"But you have teachers
and wise men among you, I presume," said the young soldier." Why
should I not go to them?"
Linus hesitated.
Circumstances had compelled him to put his own life in the young man's hands,
for though there had been as yet no persecution, a man who owned himself to be
a Christian felt himself to be doing as much as that. But to bring the lives of
others into the same danger, to trust the safety of the little community to one
who, a few weeks before, had been an absolute stranger, was another matter. And
then the interests of the young man himself were to be considered. It was no
light thing to suggest that he should openly associate with people of whom
The meeting-place was
outside the city walls. It [148] was the old club-house of a guild of artisans,
disused partly because it had fallen into bad repair, partly because the
burial-ground in which it stood, and which had much to do with its original
purpose, had been filled up by interments. The guild had removed its quarters
to larger and more commodious premises elsewhere, and had been glad to lease
what was almost a valueless property to the representative of the Christian
community, in this case no other than Linus himself. It was an oblong building
with a semicircular end, something like that form of chancel which we know
under the name of apse. The place was absolutely without ornament, though at
the back of the seat which lined the apse were
curtains of some very rough material. No religious symbol of any kind was
visible. It was important that in case of any investigation nothing should be
seen that could give the meeting the character of a secret society. Against
secret societies the government of the Empire was then, as always, mercilessly
severe.
Pudens was not destined on
that occasion to hear any such exposition of mysteries as he had been expecting
from the authorized teachers to whom Linus had referred him. The community were
intensely agitated by an unexpected blow which had suddenly fallen upon them.
It had always, indeed, a certain consciousness of danger, for it was aware that
it was undisturbed only because it was unknown; but some [149] years had passed
without any interference from the authorities, and a general feeling of
security had been the result. This was now to be destroyed, and, indeed, till
more than two centuries and a half had passed, was not to be known again by the
Christian Church.
A whispered introduction
from Linus to the door-keeper was sufficient to secure the admission of Pudens.
The building was nearly full, rather more than half the congregation being
composed of slaves. The majority of the remainder were artisans, farmers, or
small tradesmen, most of them showing by their features a Jewish origin. The
sprinkling of men of higher rank was very small. Two wore a toga fringed with
the narrow purple stripe that was the sign of equestrian rank. There were a few
women, numbering, perhaps, a sixth part of the whole, who sat together on the
hindermost benches.
Just as Linus and Pudens
entered, the presiding minister rose from the seat which he occupied by the
wall of the apse with a paper in his hand. He came forward as far as the
railing which separated the semicircle from the rest of the building, and after
a brief salutation addressed the assembled congregation.
"Brethren and
sisters," he said, "a great danger threatens us. To-morrow, possibly
to-day, if sufficient copies can be made, the edict which I am about to read to
you will be published throughout
[150] " 'NERO CLAUDIUS CAESAR DRUSUS GERMANICUS AUGUSTUS IMPERATOR TO THE SENATE AND PEOPLE OF
" 'Whereas it
has come to my knowledge as a certain fact that that most terrible disaster by
which the city of Rome has lately been visited, to wit, the conflagration,
which, raging continuously for many days and nights, destroyed not only the
dwellings of men, but the most precious monuments of our ancestors and the very
temples of the immortal gods, was brought about by the malice of certain
abandoned persons, who have assumed to themselves the name of Christians, and
who, inflamed with an insatiable hatred of the human race, conceived the idea
of destroying this, its fairest and noblest seat, I hereby charge and command
all men whatsoever, that they do forthwith give up to the magistrates, and to
other persons whom I shall appoint for that purpose, the names of all, whether
men, women, or children,—for this infection has not spared even the tenderest
age,—whom they know or suspect to be poisoned with this detestable superstition.
And I hereby declare that such as shall be found guilty of this wickedness
shall forthwith be visited with the most condign punishment.
Farewell.' "
The dismay which followed
the reading of this document defies description. Of petty social persecution the
Christians knew something; they had suffered also from one or two outbreaks of
mob violence; [151] already their heathen neighbours had begun to connect them
with dear food and unhealthy seasons, as cause and effect; but this formal
arraignment of them as men who had inflicted on their fellow-citizens the most
frightful of sufferings, was an unprecedented and wholly overwhelming
experience.
After a short pause the
minister spoke again. "Brethren and sisters," he said in a voice whose calm and measured accents contrasted strangely with
the excitement of his audience: "We do not now for the first time learn
the truth of the Master's words, 'They shall accuse you falsely for My name's
sake.' Yet I must confess that this charge, so monstrous in itself, and so far
reaching in its application, exceeds the very worst that we could have feared.
And now what shall I say to you? Great, indeed, is this tribulation, but the
grace of Him who loved you and gave Himself for you is more than sufficient. It
may be that He will deliver you even now from the mouth of the lion, even as he
delivered our holy brother Paul from it not many months ago; but if
not"—the speaker paused awhile, and then raising his voice went on with
the world-famous defiance of the dauntless three to the Chaldaean
tyrant—"if not, be it known unto thee, O King, that we will not serve the
golden image which thou hast set up."
The bold utterance met with
an immediate response from the congregation. A subdued murmur of approval went
round, and every head was lifted higher.
[152] The
speaker went on: "But it is not so much to courage as to caution that I
would at this moment exhort you. If it may be, do the Master's bidding when he
said, 'If they persecute you in one city, flee ye to another.' If you must
needs stay in
The whole congregation fell
upon their knees and prayed in a silence that was only broken by some deep sob
that could not be controlled. At last the minister rose, and stretching out his
hands over his people, committed them with words of blessing to the Divine
protection.
"How is it that your
chief became possessed of that document so soon?" asked Pudens of his
companion.
Linus smiled. "We have
always had friends in Cæsar's household. It will not avail much now, I fear,
but it at least gives us time to think."
"You will flee, of
course," resumed the young man.
"Impossible,"
replied his companion. "I have a bedridden sister, and my place is with
her. But let us hope that no one saw you to-day among us, no one, at least, who
should not have seen you."
"But have you traitors
among you?"
"Who has not? Do you
not remember that the Master Himself had one in His own small company of
twelve? But anyhow we must part; you must not be seen with me."
Pudens saw the prudence of
this advice, and could not refuse to follow it. He wrung his new friend's hand,
and with a fervent prayer, "Your Master keep
you!" turned away.
For his own safety he had
little fear. He could truly say that he was not a Christian, though he was
conscious of a strange feeling that there would be something shameful about
such a denial. The next moment he had forgotten all about himself. A thought
had shot across his mind that made his blood run cold. What would be the fate
of Pomponia? And if she was arrested,—and that she had a deadly enemy in Poppæa
he knew,—how would it fare with Claudia?
IN HIDING
[154] THE situation with which the young
soldier found himself compelled to deal was one of great difficulty. Subrius'
country house had been a sufficient shelter for the two ladies as long as it
was only illegal violence on the part of Poppæa that they had to fear. But the
case would be different when a regular proscription, in which they would
certainly be included, had been ordered. The little fort-like house might
resist a coup de main such as had been attempted at Pomponia's
mansion, but it would have to open its gates at a summons from the Imperial
authority, and that the Imperial authority would be invoked, and invoked
without delay, by the animosity of Poppæa, could not be doubted for a moment.
If resistance was impossible, what remained? Nothing but flight, and flight
from a power which embraced, or in the view of a Roman seemed to embrace, the
whole of the habitable world, was notoriously impossible. (Footnote: This cannot be expressed better
than in the well-known words of Gibbon. "The Empire of the Romans filled
the world, and when that Empire fell into the hands of a single person, the
world became a safe and dreary prison for his enemies. The slave of Imperial
despotism, whether he was condemned to drag his gilded chain in
[155] There
was a third alternative—concealment. Could that be contrived? Possibly; but where? Obviously under ordinary circumstances
in
Suddenly an idea struck
him. There was a certain grotesqueness about it which made him laugh in spite
of the gravity of the situation. A little consideration showed him that this
very grotesqueness was no small recommendation. His foster-mother was the wife
of a temple servant who had the charge of a temple dedicated to one of the
minor deities with which the Roman Pantheon was crowded. The temple itself,
which had stood near the Circus, had [156] perished in the fire, but the
residence, which was at a considerable distance, had escaped, and as it did not
come within the area of the projected improvements of the city, was not likely
to be disturbed. It was here, then, that Pudens fancied he could find a fairly
safe hiding-place for the two ladies. In his foster-mother's fidelity and
devotion to him he could implicitly trust. Childless
herself,—for she had lost all her offspring in their infancy,—she lavished all
her mother's love upon her foster-child. Nothing that he could do was
wrong in her eyes. She would give, he was sure, an
asylum to the worst of criminals, if only he came with a recommendation from
him. Her husband was an easy, good-natured man, accustomed to follow without a
question the guidance of his wife, and not more zealous for the honour of the
deity whom he served, than those who were behind the scenes of any temple
commonly were.
Pudens' idea was to tell
the wife the truth about her inmates, and to leave it to her to decide how much
she would communicate to her husband. There was no time to be lost. He had one
day before him, but no more. The Christian assembly had been held as usual in
the very early morning, and it still wanted several hours to
[157] The
first thing to be done was to provide the shelter. Pudens made the best of his
way to his foster-mother's house, and was lucky enough to find her before she
went out to make her daily purchases in the market.
The good woman's
astonishment when she heard the errand on which he had come was great. She had
just heard of the Christians, but had the very vaguest ideas as to what they
were. These ideas naturally reflected the popular prejudices.
"Of course," she
said, "we will do anything that we can." Like the wise woman that she
was, she always associated her husband with herself as far as words went.
"We will do anything that we can for friends of yours; but I have heard
that these Christians are very wicked people."
"Wicked, mother!"
cried the young man; "these are two of the best women that ever
lived."
"But why does the
Emperor want to harm them, then?"
"Need you ask, mother,
when you have such a woman as Poppæa stirring him up to all kinds of
wickedness?"
There was still such a
prestige about the Emperor that it was still the custom, at least in speaking,
whatever the real belief may have been, to attribute his misdoings to bad
advisers.
Statia—this was the
foster-mother's name—had all the dislike that a good woman would be likely to
[158] feel for Poppæa, while she had a certain weakness for the handsome young
Emperor, of whom she was ready to believe as much good and as little evil as
the utmost stretch of charity would allow.
"Ah!" she cried;
"so it is one of that mischievous woman's doings."
"And
how about your husband?"
"Oh, it will be all
right with him. I shall tell him that the ladies are people whom Poppæa hates.
That will be enough for him. He thinks as ill of her as I do. You see it was
Otho, her first—no, I am wrong, her second husband, that got him his present
place, and he thinks that she has treated him very badly."
This matter satisfactorily
settled, the next thing was to provide for the safe
conveyance of the fugitives from the one place to the other. Here Pudens found
himself face to face with a huge difficulty. The litter in which they had
journeyed from
"What is to be done,
Statia?" he asked, after turning the matter over for some time in his own
mind.
For a time the good woman
was utterly perplexed. At last an idea occurred to her.
[159] "The ladies will
come as early as possible to-morrow," she said. "That is your plan,
is it not?"
"Just so,"
replied the young man.
"When
the market carts come in from the country."
"Exactly."
"Then they must come
in a market cart."
"Admirably thought of,
mother; but how about the cart?"
"My brother Marcus,
who has a farm for vegetables in the suburbs, will lend me one. I shall tell
him that I am borrowing it for a friend who is moving her goods into the city.
You will have to act the wagoner."
"That
I can manage easily enough. It is not the first time that I have done it."
It had been a favourite
frolic with Pudens, in his somewhat turbulent youth, to seek adventures in the
disguise of a countryman. He had still the rough smock frock and leggings laid
up somewhere in his house.
"I shall go to my
brother this afternoon, and make everything ready for you. You must come
dressed as a wagoner; and mind, you must not have the
dress only, but the speech also. Can you manage this? Let me hear you
try."
Pudens gave so excellent an
imitation of rustic speech that the woman burst out laughing. "That will
do," she cried; "nothing could be better."
Shortly after
Everything went well.
Statia had been better than her word. She had induced her brother to provide a
covered wagon, as being far more convenient for the purpose than a common cart.
It was drawn by a couple of horses, about whose welfare the farmer gave many
cautions to the supposed wagoner. "My sister tells me," he said, "that you are a careful man, who knows how to
treat a good beast as he deserves. [161] Don't you overdrive the poor
creatures; be gentle with them up the hills if you have much of a load; see
with your own eyes that they get their food when you put them up at the
tavern—you know the place, the Ph?nix, just outside
the gate; an honest place enough, but hostlers will have their little tricks
everywhere."
Pudens, who had commended
himself to the farmer by some judicious praise of his animals, promised to take
all imaginable care of wagon and horses, and had the satisfaction of getting
away, without exciting, as he hoped, the slightest suspicion as to his real
character. His promise, however, did not prevent him from putting the animals
to a sharp trot, that would probably have struck
dismay into their owner's heart, as soon as he was well out of sight of the
farm. Time, indeed, was precious. He had to reach the old fort, to tell his
story, to persuade the ladies to follow his advice, itself likely, he fancied,
to be a task of some difficulty, and to get back to
The sun was just setting
when he reached the fort. Tying up the horses to a tree he approached the
building, knocked, or to speak more accurately, kicked at the door, and asked
for the old steward. The old man came to the door, expecting to be interviewed
on some ordinary business, and of course failed to recognize his visitor, whom,
indeed, he had seen once only in his natural semblance. Pudens intimated [162]
that his business was of a private kind, and on finding himself alone with the
steward revealed his name, recalling to the old man's recollection the occasion
on which they had met before. Nothing could exceed his astonishment. But when
the soldier went on to unfold his errand, describing the imminent danger in
which Pomponia and her young companion were placed, and the scheme by which he
hoped to rescue them, the old man became cool and practical at once.
"Yes," he said,
"there is a hope that you may succeed; but the first difficulty will be to
persuade my lady. Her own inclination would be to stay here and face the
danger, whatever it was."
"Shall I see
her?"
"Not, I should say,
before I have told her the story. The affair is enough to confound any one,
much more a woman who has lived out of the world for many years, and it must be
broken to her."
"Very good; arrange it
as you think best. But remember that there is no time to be lost. I should be
starting in an hour at the most, if I am to get to
The old man hastened away
at once to seek an interview with Pomponia. In about half an hour he returned.
"Come with me,"
he said. "My lady wishes to speak with you."
Pudens followed him to a
room where the two [163] ladies were sitting together. Ushered into their
presence, he felt, and was ashamed of feeling, somewhat embarrassed by the
consciousness of a ludicrous disguise, all the more when he perceived that
Claudia, notwithstanding the gravity of the situation, could not resist a
little smile.
"You have my
thanks," began Pomponia, "for all the trouble that you have taken and
the risk that you have run. But I must confess that I would sooner await here
whatever God may please to send."
The steward broke in with
the freedom of speech often accorded to, or at least assumed by, an old
servant.
"Madam, if I may be
permitted to say so much, there spoke the wife of a Roman Consular rather than
the handmaid of Christ."
Pomponia flushed at the
rebuke, but answered gently, "How so? I would not willingly forget my
duty."
"Madam," went on
the old man, "it seems to me that what God has sent, as far as we can see
at present, is this young man. He comes with a well contrived scheme which he
has taken much pains to carry out so far. But because
it does not suit your dignity to fly from your enemies, or to put on a
disguise, you refuse to avail yourself of it. Did the blessed Paul think it
below his dignity to be let down in a basket out of a window in the wall of
The last two arguments
affected Pomponia powerfully. What if this were a
call? It would be a sin if she did not follow it, for herself and her young
companion.
"Phlegon is
right," she said after a short pause; "we will do as you think
best."
It was arranged that the
two female attendants who had accompanied the visitors should remain where they
were. It was difficult, if not impossible, otherwise to dispose of them.
Probably they would escape unmolested, passing as part of the small establishment
which the owner of the house was accustomed to maintain. Phlegon would find
shelter with friends in
[165] It
is needless to describe the journey to
"Who are they? What
have they done?" asked the supposed wagoner.
"By Bacchus!"
cried the man; "I know nothing about it. I heard something about their
being Chris- [166] tians, whatever that may mean. All that I can tell you is
that it is some affair of Poppæa. You see that fat man by our chief's side? He
has had a bad time of it, I fancy. He is not used to riding, I take it, and we
have been pushing on at a good rate. Well, he is one of Poppæa's freedmen. That
fellow there," he pointed as he spoke to a slave who was evidently in
charge of a couple of troopers," is our guide. He knows, it seems, where
the parties whom we want are, and was to have a turn on the 'little horse' if
he didn't tell." (Footnote: The
"Little Horse" (eculeus or equuleus) was an instrument of torture.
Little is known of its form, beyond that the sufferer's limbs were unnaturally
prolonged by weights attached to them. Seneca talks of some
one "being made longer by the eculeus" (eculeo longior factus).)
This, Pudens imagined, must
be some poor wretch belonging to Pomponia's household in
The easy bearing of Pudens
had exactly the effect which he hoped from it, while the accident of the two
parties meeting at the halting-place was all in favour of his escape. Probably,
had the soldiers encountered him on the road, they would have challenged him,
and overhauled the contents of his wagon. As matters turned out, the idea never
occurred either to the officer in command or to any of his men. He acted his
part so thoroughly well, that no notion of his being [167] anything more than a
countryman on his way to the Roman market with a load of produce, crossed any
one's mind. Anxious to avoid the remotest cause of suspicion, he purposely
prolonged his halt, though, it need not be said,
intensely anxious to be off, till the soldiers had started again. It was with
intense relief that he heard the officer in command give the order to mount.
When the last of the troopers had disappeared in the darkness, he climbed to
the driver's seat, tossed the hostler his fee,—which he was careful not to make
the smallest fraction larger than usual,—and set his horses in motion. The two
women, who had sat all this time under the covering of the wagon, hand clasped
in hand, in a perfect agony of suspense, breathed a fervent thanksgiving when
they felt themselves to be once more upon the way.
Nothing else happened to
alarm the travellers during the rest of their journey; but the most critical
time was yet to come. While they were still out of sight of the inn where the
wagon and horses were to be put up, the two ladies alighted. Each was disguised
beyond recognition, Pudens hoped, in the coarse cloaks usually worn by the
market-women when they travelled by night, and each carried a large basket
filled, or apparently filled, with goods that they were about to offer for
sale. At the inn, of course, the wagon and the horses were well known, but
Pudens, as a stranger, excited some curiosity.
[168] "Well," he
said, in answer to some question, "old Caius has a touch of
fever,"—he had taken the precaution of ascertaining the name of the man
whom the farmer usually employed,—"and I am taking his place. It is not to
my liking at all," he went on; "I had sooner be in my bed, by a long
way."
At the city gate the porter
grumbled a little at being roused so early, but asked no questions. Catching a
glimpse of Claudia's beautiful face, he paid the girl a rough compliment which
made her shiver with fear and disgust. Pudens would have dearly liked to knock
the fellow down, but, anxious above all things to avoid a scene, restrained himself.
"Hold your
tongue," he growled to the man in the harshest country accent that he
could put on, "and leave her alone. She is not your sort."
"Nor yours,
either," retorted the man; "for a rougher bumpkin I never saw."
The "bumpkin,"
however, he perceived to be unusually tall and stout, and one who would be a
formidable fellow to quarrel with. He returned into the gate-house, and the
party passed on without further molestation. The streets were almost deserted,
so early was the hour. Beyond one or two late revellers staggering home, and a
few workmen engaged in some occupation that had to be begun betimes, no one met
them. When they reached the temple servant's door where Statia was waiting to
receive her new inmates, they had escaped, so Pudens had good reason to hope,
all hostile observation.
THE PERSECUTION
[169] THE streets were beginning to fill as
Pudens made the best of his way from the temple servant's dwelling to his own
house. Fortunately for him, as he naturally wished to escape notice, the
attention of the passers-by was engrossed by the copies of the edict against
the Christians, which the Imperial officers were now busy posting up in all the
public places of the city. He was thus able to reach his home without
attracting any observation. Once there, he hastened to put away his disguise in
the safest hiding-place that he could find. The proceedings of the night he
proposed to keep for as long as possible an absolute secret. The most
honourable of men, he reflected, are less likely to divulge what they do not
know than what they do.
A veritable reign of terror
now began in
Among the prisoners was the
gladiator, or rather ex-gladiator, Fannius. He had made the acquaintance of
Glaucon, a young man belonging to Pomponia's household, who, when that lady was
obliged to leave Rome, had been given some employment by her nephew, Lateranus.
Glaucon was a native of
And now occurred
a difficulty of the most serious kind. The performance which Nero exhibited
after the fire was the last in which Fannius would have to appear. Did he
survive this, he would be entitled to his discharge.
But could he consent to appear? Would the principles of his new faith permit
him to exhibit his prowess in the arena? That he could not engage in combat
with one of his fellow-men was perfectly plain. That would be a manifest breach
of an elementary law of morals. The question was,
could he take any part in the spectacle? Opinions were divided. Advisers of the
severer sort declared against any participation; others were content with
saying that he must do nothing that would endanger [173] human life. This was
the course which he followed. He went to the trainer, and declared, without
giving his reasons, that he would not fight except against wild beasts. At
first the man was furious. Fannius was, as has been said, a remarkably skilful
swords-man, and his dexterity and force made him perhaps the most popular
performer in the whole school; all this would be thrown away if he were matched
with a lion or a tiger.
"What!" cried the
man; "you, my best fighter! I am not going to waste you in such a shameful
way."
"There is no help for
it," replied Fannius. "Set me to fight against a gladiator, and I
shall simply drop my arms. Against a beast I will do my best."
And there was no help for
it. The trainer had to make the best of it. He even consoled himself with the
idea that he should be able to present a novelty to the spectators. Commonly it
was a condemned criminal that had to combat with a wild beast, and it was very
seldom that these wretched creatures made any real resistance. They were
usually without skill in arms or physical strength; and they were terrified
into helplessness. A practised gladiator of the very first class engaging in
one of these desperate combats—and a struggle with a lion or tiger at close
quarters was then, as it would be now without the help of fire-arms, well nigh
desperate—might have a great success. At the same time, as Fannius' time of
engage- [174] ment was up, there was no risk. If he was killed there would be
no loss; if he survived there would be the credit of having provided a novel
and exciting entertainment.
So it was arranged. After a
number of pairs of gladiators had fought without any particularly brilliant
result, the herald came forward, and made the following announcement,
permission having been first obtained from the presiding authorities. Fannius,
it should be said, had nothing to do with the terms in which it was made.
"C. Fannius, having
fought many times with men, and having as often secured victory, claims
permission to fight with more formidable antagonists. He will, therefore, with
the help of certain associates who have been allotted to him for this purpose,
contend with a lion, a lioness, and a bear."
The "associates"
were criminals who would in any case have had to undergo the ordeal.
The combat that followed
proved to be a success, at least from the point of view of a Roman sight-seer.
To us it would have seemed a peculiarly brutal exhibition. The result was that
the lioness and the bear were killed, Fannius' companions perishing in the
struggle. Fannius, in fact, dispatched both animals while they were mangling
the dead. A fierce conflict with the lion ended in the victory of the
gladiator; though sadly mangled by the claws and teeth of his savage
antagonist, he escaped with his [175] life, and, of course, received his discharge,
together with a handsome present from the Emperor. He was taken down to the
farm, and nursed with indefatigable patience and care by Epicharis and her
aunt. The girl's heart was softened as she tended her suffering lover, and she
consented to become formally betrothed to him, though only on the condition
that before their marriage the vengeance for which she lived should have been
first exacted.
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It was in the midst of the
joy and pride which he felt in securing an affection of which he had begun to
despair, that Fannius imparted to Epicharis the secret of the conspiracy, the
secret into which he had been himself initiated by Subrius. The matter had been
left to his discretion by his superior, and he thought himself justified in
what he did, by the belief, perfectly well founded, as we shall see, that he
could not have secured a more zealous or more loyal associate. On her part the
girl was almost frantic with delight. An object which had seemed almost
unattainable was now within reach. It was not a weak woman; it was a powerful
association of great nobles and great soldiers that had vowed vengeance against
the tyrant. At the same time the love, for which hitherto there had scarcely
been room in her heart by the side of the engrossing passion for vengeance,
grew up and flourished apace. Before cold and distant, she now lavished upon
her lover an affection which astonished as much as it delighted him.
[176] Then the blow fell.
To the trainer the conduct of Fannius in choosing to fight with beasts rather
than men had been unintelligible. If he guessed at any motive he would have
said that it was a desire for notoriety. But a rival gladiator, who conceived
himself to be affronted by the terms of the proclamation, which indeed, though,
as had been said, not through any fault of Fannius, had a
certain arrogance about them—was more acute. He knew something about
Fannius, and was sure that he would not have committed himself to a desperate
venture without some motive of solid worth. Fannius, he was sure, had every
reason for wanting to live, and there must be some grave reason for his thus
risking his life. What could it be but the same motive which prevented these
gloomy sectaries, the Christians, from ever enjoying the spectacles of the
Circus and the amphitheatre. On the strength of this
conjecture he informed against Fannius as belonging to the forbidden sect of
the Christians. The young man, who had now entirely recovered his health, came
to
Another of the prisoners
was Phlegon, Pomponia's steward. He had been arrested at Subrius' country
house. Whether the soldiers arrived before he expected them, or whether he
deliberately lingered because he knew that they would not be satisfied [177]
without making some arrest, it is not easy to say. Two slaves belonging to the
household were seized along with him. Both, it so happened, were heathen, and
were therefore in no danger; and he had the satisfaction of knowing, on the
other hand, that the two women servants, left behind by Pomponia and Claudia,
contrived to escape the notice of the soldiers. To his own peril, now that it
had come to him in the way of duty, he was wholly indifferent. He had long
since counted the cost of his Christian profession, and had resolved to pay it.
The authorities were
seriously perplexed by the abundance of prey which they secured. They did not
know where to lodge their prisoners. It must be remembered that the Romans did
not habitually use imprisonment, after conviction, as a punishment. Commonly
the criminal, if he was not executed, was banished. Sometimes he was consigned
to the safe keeping of some distinguished person, (Footnote:
This was called libera custodia. It has sometimes been practised
by ourselves. Thus, after the accession of
One means of doing this
would be by the singularity of the punishment to be inflicted on them. To make
a conspicuous example of some, and to permit the rest to escape, was the course
which commended itself to him. How he succeeded will now have to be told.
During the two centuries
and a half during which the Christian Church had to endure from time to time
the hostility of the rulers of Rome, there were many persecutions that reached
further, that lasted longer, that were in many ways more fatal; but there was
not one that left on the minds of men so deep an impression of horror.
WHAT THE TEMPLE SERVANT
[179] IT was of course impossible that
Pomponia and her young companion should remain in ignorance of what was going
on in
Commonly the temple
servant's house was remarkably quiet. The old man was a peace-loving personage,
who seldom entertained others, and still more seldom went out. The dwelling was
so small that the apartment occupied by the ladies could hardly be said to be
out of hearing of that where Statia and her husband sat in the evening.
Commonly there was silence, the woman being busy with her needle, the old man
sleeping in his chair. Now and then there would be heard a gentle murmur of
conversation. Once or twice the ladies could distinguish a third [180] voice,
which they supposed to be that of an occasional visitor. One night, however,
after they had been in their refuge about a month, they could not help
overhearing what seemed to be a very loud and animated discussion. Fragments of
talk even reached their ears, and though they did not attempt to piece them
together, the words they heard left a general impression of uneasiness and even
fear in their minds. The next morning their hostess was in an evident condition
of agitation and excitement, divided between eagerness to tell her news, and a
kind-hearted desire not to give pain to her guests.
"Oh, my lady!"
she burst out, "there were terrible doings last night; such as were never
heard of, they say, in Rome before, ever since it was a city."
The two women listened in
silent dismay. That the storm which had been gathering would soon burst, they
had clearly foreseen; in what terrible form its violence would break forth,
with such a creature, permitted by God to plague the world for its sins, who
could tell?
"I did not see them
myself," Statia went on, "thanks be to the gods! But my husband did,
and he was fairly sick and faint with the horribleness of the whole business
when he came home. You see, he is not one that goes out much to sights. I
haven't known him go to the Circus or the amphitheatre as much as once in the
last ten years. You see, he would sooner stop at home quiet with me; and the
[181] best place, too, for an old man; aye! and for a
young one, too, in my judgment. But last night a friend of his that serves the
same temple would have him go and see some fine show, as he called it. The
Emperor, my husband's friend said, was to throw open his gardens to the people,
and there were to be such wonderful sights as had never been seen before. Well,
my good man goes; and as I said, he comes home before it was over, quite sick
with what he had seen. As soon as he was inside the gardens, he found a crowd
of people hurrying to the theatre that there is in the gardens. Naturally he
goes with them, and finds himself in a good place in front, where he could see
all that was going on. In the arena were a number of animals,—bears, and lions,
and tigers, and bisons, and other creatures that he did not know the names
of,—at least, that was what he thought at first; but when he looked again he
thought that there was something curious about them, they looked so awkward and
clumsy. 'What ails the beasts?' he said to his next neighbour. The man laughed.
'They are not beasts at all!' he said; 'they are men!' 'Then what
do they dress them up like that for?' asks my husband. 'Wait a moment,' says
the other, 'and you will see.' And sure enough he did see. Some doors under the
seats were opened, and a whole pack of dogs came leaping out—the biggest and
fiercest looking dogs, my husband said, that he had ever seen. 'They've kept
them hungry on purpose,' said the [182] other man, 'giving them nothing to eat
for two days, I am told.' 'But who are the poor creatures?' asked my husband,
'and what have they done?' 'Who are they?' answered the other, 'why, they are
Christians, to be sure, whatever that may mean, for I don't rightly know
myself; and 'tis said that it is they who set the city on fire.' "
"Hush!" cried
Claudia, when Statia had reached this point in her story. "Tell us no
more; it is more than my dear mother can bear."
And indeed Pomponia had
grown paler and paler as the story went on.
"Nay," said
Pomponia. "If our brethren actually endure these things, we may at least
bear to hear them. Go on, my friend."
"Well, my lady,"
Statia resumed, "the poor creatures were not as much injured as one would
have expected. Many of the dogs, when they found out that it was not real
beasts that they were set to attack, left them alone; some were even quite
friendly and gentle with them. 'They seemed to me,' says my husband, 'a great
deal better than their masters;' and right he was, as you will say, when you
hear what happened next. A herald came forward and cried, 'Fathers, knights,
and citizens of Rome, the Emperor invites you to the Circus to witness a chariot-race,
and hopes that you will regard with indulgence any deficiency of skill that you
may perceive in the charioteers.' 'They say that he is going [183] to drive one
of the chariots himself, and Lateranus, who is to be Consul next year, the
other,'—so my husband's neighbour, who seemed to know all about the show, told
him. Of course it was very condescending of him to amuse the people in this
way, but it does not seem to me quite the right thing for an Emperor.
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"Well, by this time it
was getting dark, and when my husband got outside the theatre, he found the
gardens lighted up. All along the walks, on each of the lamp-posts, they had
fastened a man,—yes, it is true as I am alive,—a man, dressed in a tunic
steeped in pitch, and with an iron collar under the chin to keep the head
up,—fastened them, and set them on fire. That was too much for my husband. He
declared that he could stay no longer, and indeed, he was so poorly that his
friend had to see him home, though he was sorry, he said, not to see the rest
of the show. When they got back he and my husband had a great argument about
it,—perhaps you may have heard them, my lady, for they talked very loud. My
husband's friend would have it that it was only right. They were Christians, he
said, which was only another name for atheists, and richly deserved all they
got. But my husband does not hold with such doings, and told his friend so
pretty plainly. 'After all, they're men,' he said, 'and you must not treat them
as you would not treat a beast.' 'What! 'said the other,—and I will allow that
this did shake [184] me a bit,—'don't you know that if these people had their
way, there would be no more offerings in the temples, aye, and no more temples,
either, for the matter of that, and where would you and I be then?' But my good
man stuck to his point for all that. 'I reckon that the gods can take care of
themselves,' he said; 'and that anyhow, they won't thank us for helping them in
this kind of way. It is not our Roman fashion to make show of men in this way.
No, no! if a man has to be punished, there is the regular way of doing it; the
cross for a slave, and the axe for the free man, with the scourge first, if he
has done anything specially bad; but as for dressing men up like beasts, or
turning them into torches, I don't hold with it. Our fathers did not do it, and
what was enough for them should be enough for us.' That was what my good man
said. I have never heard him make such a long speech ever since we were
married, for he is not a man of many words. What do you think, my lady?"
The good woman had been
quite carried away with her subject, for genuine as was her disgust at the
Emperor's cruelties, she had a certain pleasure, not uncommon in her class, in
the telling of horrors, and she had not noticed how her narrative had affected
one of her hearers. Pomponia had quietly fainted.
"Ah! poor lady," cried Statia. "It has been too much
for her. I am sure that she must feel for the poor things."
WHAT THE SOLDIERS THOUGHT
[185] THE temple servant was not the only one
among the spectators who had crowded the gardens of Nero,
that had viewed the sight there presented to his gaze with disgust and
horror. The Prætorians were particularly free and outspoken in the expressions
of their feelings. Already they had begun to look upon themselves as the prop
of the Imperial throne. It was to their camp that Nero had been carried almost
before the breath had left the body of his predecessor Claudius; it was to them
that the ambitious Agrippina had looked to give effect to the intrigue by which
her son was preferred to the rightful heir; (Footnote:
The rightful heir was Britannicus, the son of the Emperor Claudius. It is true
that he was only a boy, not quite fourteen, as far as can be determined, when
his father died; and an essentially military throne can hardly be occupied by a
child; but then Nero was only in his seventeenth year.) it
was by their voices that Nero had been proclaimed Emperor, the vote of the
Senate only following and confirming their previous determination.
On the morning after the
exhibition described in my last chapter a wine shop, which stood just outside
the Prætorian camp, and was a favourite resort [186] of the men, was crowded
with soldiers taking their morning meal.
"Well, Sisenna,"
cried a veteran, putting down his empty cup, after a hearty draught of his
customary morning beverage of hot wine and water, sweetened with honey and
flavoured with saxifrage, "what think you of last night's entertainment?"
The soldier appealed to was
a young man who had just been drafted into the Prætorian force as a reward for
some good service done on the Asiatic frontier. He did not answer at once, but
looked round the room with the air of one who doubts whether he may safely
express his thoughts.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the veteran, "you are cautious, I
see. That's the way among the legions, I am told, and quite right, too; but
it's all liberty here. Speak out, man; we are all friends here, and there is no
one to call us to account for what we say. Cæsar knows too well what our voices
are worth to him to hinder our using them."
"Well, Rufus,"
said Sisenna after a pause, "I will say frankly that it did not please me.
It was not Roman, it was barbarian, though I must say
that I never heard even of barbarians doing things quite so horrible."
"Who are these
Christians?" asked a third speaker. "What have they done?"
"Didn't you read the
Emperor's edict?" said a fourth soldier. "They set the city on fire,
because [187] they hate their fellow-creatures, and wish to do them as much
damage as they can."
"Well," said
Sisenna, "that, anyhow, is not my experience of them. They may hate their
fellow-creatures in general, but they are certainly very kind to some of them
in particular. Let me tell you what I know about them of my own knowledge. I
was very bad with fever when I was campaigning on the
"A good man!"
interrupted one of his listeners. "Why, I have always heard that he was a
turbulent Jew whom Claudius banished with a number of his countrymen from
[188] "No, no,"
Sisenna went on, "you are mistaken; at least, if my friend the physician
told me true; Christus was never in Rome, and he was crucified, if I remember
right, eight years before Claudius came to the throne."
"Crucified, was
he?" said one of the previous speakers. "Then he must have been a
slave. Fancy a number of people calling themselves by the name of a
slave!"
"No," answered
Sisenna; "as far as I could understand, he was not a slave; but of course,
he was not a citizen. He was a workman of some kind, a carpenter, I think the
physician told me; but whatever he was, he was a wonderful man. He seems to
have gone about healing sick people, and making blind men see, and lame men
walk; aye, and dead men live again."
There was a general outcry
at this. "No! no!" said one of the audience,
expressing the common feeling; "that is too much to believe; the other
things might be; but making the dead alive! you are
laughing at us."
"I can only tell
you," said Sisenna, "what the old man told me; he said that he had
seen these things with his own eyes. One of the dead men was a friend of [189]
his own, aye, and had been his patient, too, in his last illness. 'I saw him
die!' he said. I remember his very words, for I was as little disposed to
believe the story as you are. 'I saw him die, for I had been with him all the
time; I had done my very best to save him; and I saw him buried, too; then
comes this Christus—he had been away, you must understand, when the man
died—and makes them roll away the stone from the door of the tomb, and cries to
the dead man, "Come forth!" I saw the dead man come out,
just as he had been buried, with the grave clothes about him, and his chin tied
up with a napkin, just as I had tied it with my own hands, when I knew beyond
all doubt that he was dead.' These were the old physician's very words."
"He must have been
mad," said one of the audience.
"Possibly,"
returned Sisenna; "but he wasn't in the least mad in other matters. He
talked as sensibly as a man could, and a better physician I never hope to
see."
"But tell me,"
said a soldier who had been listening attentively to Sisenna's word, "how
did this strange man come to such a bad end? If he could do such wonderful
things, couldn't he have prevented it somehow? And couldn't he have made
himself alive again, if he made other people?"
A murmur of approval
followed the speaker's words, as if he had succeeded in expressing the general
feeling.
[190] "Well,"
replied Sisenna, "that is just what I asked, and the old man did try to
explain it to me, but I could not rightly understand what he said. Only I made
out that he needn't have died if he had not been willing."
"No," cried the
soldier; "that can't be true. A man choosing to die in such a way! It is past all belief."
"Well, so I
thought," said Sisenna; "but as for what you said about his making himself
alive again, that is just what the old man told me he did."
"Did he ever see him
alive again?" some one asked.
"No, he did not. I
particularly asked him, and he said he was not one of those who did. But he
believed it. He knew scores of people, he said, who had seen him."
"This is all very
strange," said the veteran who had begun the conversation, "and for
my part, I can't make head or tail of it. But tell us, what sort of people are
these Christians? do they do the horrible things that
people charge them with?"
"I can't believe
it," replied Sisenna. "I know nothing but what is good of them; and I
never found any one who did know, though there are plenty who are ready to say
it. My old physician spent all his time in visiting sick people, and I am sure
not one in ten paid him anything. He wouldn't have taken anything from me, but
that I told him I could afford [191] it. They had a house, he told me, where
they took in sick folks to care for them; not people that could pay, you must understand, but poor workmen and slaves and lepers,
all the poor wretches that no one else took any heed of."
At this point in the
conversation a newcomer entered the room. He was greeted with a cry of welcome.
"Ha! Pansa," said one of the company,
"you are just the man whom we want to see. Do you know anything about
these folk that men call Christians?"
"Well, I ought
to," replied the man. "Don't you know that the prisoner whom Celer
and I had charge of up to the spring of this year was one of their chief men?
He was a Jew, but a citizen. Paulus was his name. He got into trouble with his
countrymen at
"Why, Pansa,"
cried one of the soldiers, "I do believe that you are more than half a
Christian yourself."
"I might be something
much worse, my man," said the soldier.
"Well, it is lucky for
you that you are not one just now," retorted the other, "or we should
have had you blazing away in a pitch tunic last night."
"Ah," said Pansa,
"you may say what you like, but there is something in this business, you
may be sure. You should have seen Paulus when the Emperor [194] heard his
cause. The boldest man in
"Well, what became of
him?" inquired one of Pansa's audience.
"He was acquitted. At
first, I could see plainly enough, Nero was dead against him. He would not let
him speak a couple of sentences without interruption, and every now and then
would burst out laughing. But he came round little by little. Even Poppæa was
silenced. At last the Emperor said, 'Paulus, whether you are mad or not, only
the gods know; if you are, your madness is better than most men's sound
judgment. You seem to me not to have offended either against the majesty of the
Roman people, or against the welfare of the human race. My sentence is that you
are acquitted.' Then the smith, who was waiting outside, was sent for to strike
off the prisoner's chain. While he was doing this the Emperor said, 'How long
have you been bound with that chain?' Paulus answered, 'For five years, wanting
a month; that is to say, for two years and [195] four months at Cæsarea, and
for two years and two months here in Rome, and the journeying hither was five months,
seeing that I suffered shipwreck on the way.' Nero said, 'You have endured a
wrong.' Then turning to Tigellinus, he said, 'See that he be paid two hundred
gold pieces.' That evening Paulus sent for me to his house—the place where we
had been in charge of him. When I got there, he said to me, 'Pansa, I fear that
I have been a great trouble to you and your comrades these two years past.
Pardon me, if I have offended you in aught. I have not been ashamed of my
chain, but I know that it tries a man's patience sorely, and I may have erred
in hastiness of speech.' I declared, as indeed I had every reason to do, that
no one could have borne himself more admirably. He went on, 'I have given you
no gifts in these years past, such as it is customary, I am told, for prisoners
to give to them that keep them; I judged it not right to do aught that might
savour of corruption, and indeed, I but seldom had the means out of which I
might give. But now I am no longer bound with this constraint; will it
therefore please you to take these twenty-five pieces out of Cæsar's
liberality?' Twenty-five gold pieces, gentlemen, do not often come in a poor
soldier's way; still I was loth to take them. 'Surely, sir,' I said, 'you need
them for yourself.' 'Nay,' said he, 'I am otherwise provided for.' And I happen
to know that he did not keep a single piece for himself. He gave [196] to Celer
the same sum that he gave to me; the rest he distributed among the poor. After
this he said to me, 'Pansa, it may and will be that you and I shall not meet
again. Now I have never spoken to you at any time during these two years past
of that which was nearest to my heart. I thought—my God knows whether wrongly
or rightly—that I should not, because you would be constrained to listen,
whether you would or not; my Master would have free servants only. But now it
is permitted to me to speak.' After this he said many things which I cannot now
repeat."
"But he did not
persuade you?" said one of the listeners.
"Nay; he seemed to ask
too much. On my faith, it seemed to me that to be a Christian was to be little
better than being dead. Yet I have often wished it otherwise; and, if I see him
again—but perhaps it is better to be silent."
"So you don't think
there is any harm in these Christians?" said the soldier who had first
questioned him.
"None at all, as I am
a Roman," said Pansa.
"And you don't believe
they set the city on fire?"
"Impossible! The
Emperor has been deceived, and it is not difficult to see who deceived
him."
After this there was a silence.
Though the soldiers might boast of their freedom of speech, every one knew that
there were limits to what might safely [197] be said, and that now they were
very near to dangerous ground.
Before long the silence was
broken by the entrance of a newcomer. The man, who was evidently in a state of
great excitement, looked hurriedly round the room, and caught sight of Sisenna.
"Sisenna," he
cried, "you know Fannius, the gladiator?"
"I know him
well," replied Sisenna. "I served with him in
"He is near his end,
and has sent for you."
"Near his end!"
cried Pansa in dismay. "Why, he had recovered from his wounds when I saw
him a few days ago; and he told me that he was quite well. What ails him?"
"I will tell you as we
go," said the messenger; "but make haste, for there is no time to
lose."
IN THE PRISON
[198] THE story which Pansa heard on his way
was briefly this. Part of it we know already. An old comrade and antagonist had
informed against him. The man had been vanquished by Fannius in the arena, and,
what was a more deadly offence, had been detected by
him in a fraudulent attempt to bring about a result that would have greatly
profited some disreputable patrons. The arrest of Fannius had followed. But the
malignant spite of his enemy had not been satisfied. He had induced the officer
in charge of the business to thrust this particular prisoner into the most
noisome dungeon in
Fannius had a great
reputation for courage and skill in arms, and it was not difficult to make the
officer believe, by dwelling on his lawless and violent temper, that he was a
highly dangerous person. Accordingly, all other places of confinement being
full, and even more than full, Fannius was thrust into the Tullianum, an
underground cell, damp and fetid to a degree that made
it almost intolerable. In fact, its original use had been as a place of
execution rather than of confinement. In this King Jugurtha, after being led in
[199] triumph by his conqueror, had been left to starve. Here the profligate
nobles who had conspired with Catiline against the Senate and people of
Happily he was not suffered
to die in this miserable dungeon. His jailer was an old soldier, who would
probably have viewed with indifference the sufferings of a civilian prisoner,
but who had a soft spot in his heart for any one who had served under the
eagles. The man sent for a physician, and the physician peremptorily ordered
removal. "He can hardly live," he told the jailer, when he had
examined his patient; "but a dry chamber and wholesome air might give him
a chance." The jailer had him forthwith taken to his own house. This was
technically considered to be part of the prison, so that he might plead that he
was only transferring his charge from one cell to another, and one practically
as safe, considering that [200] the sick man could not so much as put a foot to
the ground, and indeed was more than half unconscious.
The change of air and the
careful nursing of the jailer's wife brought about a temporary amendment.
Fannius recovered sufficient strength to be able to speak. Summoning his host,
as he may be called, to his bedside, he whispered to him the names of two
persons whom he particularly desired to see. One of them was Sisenna, an old
comrade in arms, whom he was anxious to make executor of his will; the other
was Epicharis.
Sisenna was at hand, and,
as we have seen, was fetched without delay.
"You are a true
friend," said Fannius to him, as he entered the room; "you are not
afraid of coming to see a prisoner; a prisoner, too, charged with the most
odious of crimes."
"Afraid! No,"
said the soldier energetically. "And as for crime, whatever they may say,
I know that you are altogether incapable of it. But tell me, how can I serve
you?" "I wish you," replied Fannius, "to undertake the
charge of distributing what little property I shall leave behind me. Subrius the
Tribune has the charge of it. It is but a trifle, some two hundred thousand sesterces in all; but I should like some people to know that I
have not forgotten them. I shall make my will by word of mouth, for there is no
time now for writing. All will be left to you without the mention of any trust;
but what I want you [201] to do with the money is this. Half of the money is to
go to the freedwoman Epicharis, lately in the service of the Empress Octavia.
She is living with her aunt, Galla by name, at the Farm of the Two Fountains
near Gabii. Of the other half I wish you to keep twenty thousand sesterces for yourself; as to the remainder, I have to give you
a charge which may prove to be somewhat troublesome. Inquire whether I have any
kinsfolk on the mother's side—such as I have on the father's side, are, I know,
fairly well-off—who are both deserving and in need. Divide the money among such
as you may find to be so, exactly as you think fit. If there are none, then
distribute it among the poor at your discretion."
"Nay, my friend,"
said the soldier; "but it is a formidable thing to be trusted in this way.
How do you know that I am fit for it?"
"How do I know?"
replied Fannius with a smile. "Why, just in the same way that you knew I
could not commit a crime. Do not refuse. You are a soldier, and, therefore,
they are less likely to dispute the will, which, as made by a prisoner, is of
doubtful force."
"Let it be, then, as
you will," said Sisenna.
"That is well,"
said the sick man. "We shall need seven witnesses. There is the jailer and
his wife and son; let them send for four others, for you, of course, cannot
serve."
The witnesses were easily
found. The seven were [202] made up of the three inmates of the house, three
soldiers belonging to Sisenna's own company, and the temple servant, in whose
house Pomponia had taken refuge. It so happened that this man was an old friend
of the jailer.
The form of making the
verbal or nuncupatory will, as it was
called, was of the simplest and briefest kind. The testator simply said:—
"I, Caius Fannius,
hereby nominate Marcus Sisenna, Centurion in the fourth Prætorian Cohort, as
heir to my undivided property."
Immediately afterwards the
will was reduced to writing and signed by the witnesses.
The whole of this business
was finished about the seventh hour, or
The physician had just paid
his patient his evening visit, and was describing his condition to the jailer
when Epicharis reached the house. She caught the sound of his voice through the
door which happened to be ajar, and guessing from the first words that she
heard who he was, and what was his errand in that house, stood in almost
breathless suspense to listen. A rapid intuition told her that not to discover
herself would be her best chance of knowing the whole truth. If he knew her
relation to the sick man the physician would probably, after the fashion of his
class, deceive her with some kindly meant misrepresentation of the truth.
[203] "It is as I
feared," said the old man. "The improvement of yesterday was a last
flicker. They might as well strangle a man as throw him into that pit. Does he
wish to see any one?"
The jailer told him that he
made his will that morning, and that the woman to whom he was betrothed was
coming. Would the excitement of seeing her harm him?
"Harm him!" cried
the physician. "Nothing can harm him now. Let him have his will in
everything. He can scarce live beyond sunrise to-morrow. I will see him again,
though I can do no good. Now I have others to visit."
As he spoke the physician
opened the door, and found himself face to face with the girl outside. What she
had heard had equalled, even surpassed, her worst fears. That something was
wrong, she had not doubted; else why should she have been sent for. Very likely
there had been a relapse; he had been doing too much in
[204] The
old physician at once guessed who she was. Assuming his set, professional
smile, he said in as cheerful a tone as he could command, for, used as he was
to suffering, his patient's case had touched him, "Ah, my dear girl, you
have come, I suppose, to set our friend all right. You will find him a little
low, and must be careful with him."
"Ah, sir," cried the girl, recovering her speech, "do
not seek to deceive me. I heard all that you said, as I stood here."
The old man's manner
changed at once to a grave kindliness. "You know it, then," he said.
"You are a brave girl, I see; control yourself; you will have time for
tears hereafter; now make his last hour as happy as you can. The gods comfort
you!"
He pressed her hand with a
friendly grasp, and hurried away, but it was long before he forgot the look of
hopeless sorrow that was written on that beautiful face.
"I am Epicharis, whom
you sent for," she said to the jailer's wife as she entered the room.
"Stay," she went on, lifting up her hand as she spoke, "I know
the whole truth. And now let me sit here a while and recover myself somewhat
before I see him."
She sat down, and
resolutely set herself to master the passion of grief that was struggling
within for expression. A flood of tears would have been an in- [205]
expressible relief; but did she once give way to them, when could she recover
her calm? Time was precious, and she must not risk losing it. By degrees she
controlled herself, fighting down with success the dry, tearless sobs that for
a time would rise in her breast. She consented, though loathing it in her
heart, to drink the cup of wine which her hostess pressed upon her, and it
certainly helped her in her struggle. In about half an hour's time she was calm
enough to enter the sick man's chamber.
Fannius had fallen into a
light sleep, but awoke as she came in. For a time, as will often happen in
cases of weakness, he failed to collect his thoughts. He had been dreaming of
past times, days in which Epicharis had been cold and disdainful, and the
girl's real presence seemed only to carry on the visionary scene which sleep
had conjured up before his eyes.
"Why does she come to
torment me?" he said. "I had best forget her, if she cannot love
me."
The girl's eyes filled with
tears. It is hard to say which pained her more, the thought of the happiness
which she might have had, had she been less set on her own purposes, or that of
which she had had a brief glimpse, but could now see no more.
She threw herself on her
knees by the bedside, and kissed the pale hand which rested on the coverlet.
The touch of her warm lips
recalled the dying man [206] to himself. His eyes
lightened with a smile of inexpressible tenderness.
"You are come,
darling," he said. "I knew that you would. You will stay with me
now," he whispered after a pause. "It will not be for long."
After that he seemed
content to be silent. Indeed, he was almost too weak to speak. But, to judge
from the happy smile upon his face, it was bliss to feel her hand in his, and
to keep his eyes fixed upon her face.
About an hour short of
"Give me," he
said, "a cordial. I have something to say, and need a little
strength."
The physician had left a
cordial, some old Falernian wine with bettany root dissolved in it, in case the
occasion for it should arise.
Epicharis raised the sick
man's head from the pillow, and put the cup to his lips. He took a few sips and
then spoke: "Tell Subrius the Prætorian that he is embarked on an ill
business. It will not prosper. And you, too, beware of it. Put away these
thoughts from you. It has been borne in upon me that these things will be your
ruin. I have had a dreadful dream since I slept. I saw Nero sitting on his
throne, and the ground round him was covered with dead bodies, as thickly as if
there had been a battle. But I could not see their faces."
[207] "But you told me
yourself," said Epicharis, "of this undertaking, and seemed glad that
it was set on foot."
"Ah! but things are changed since then with me. I did not know
what I know now."
The fact was,
that it was only a few days before his arrest that Fannius had discussed the
subject with one of the Christian teachers. Probably there have always been two
ways of thinking about the lawfulness of resistance to power, unrighteous in
itself or unrighteously exercised. But among the early Christians there was
certainly a greater weight of authority on the side of submission. "The
powers that be are ordained of God" was the teaching of the great Apostle
who had formed the views of the Church in
The mind of the soldier had
been much agitated by conflicting emotions. The old loyalty to the Emperor,
which was part of a soldier's training, was now reinforced by a religious sanction.
On the other hand, he was deeply committed to comrades with whose desire to
free
Then came
the arrest and imprisonment of the Christians. The tyrant who had given the
order now seemed doubly hateful. Still it did not change the soldier's newly
acquired views of duty. In one way it emphasized them. The more difficult
submission appeared, the greater the obligation to it. "Not only to the
good and gentle, but also to the froward," were words that rung in his
ears. And in the near presence of his death this call of duty, as he conceived
it, became louder and more imperative. To see Epicharis, and to implore her to
abandon her scheme, became a pressing necessity.
"I implore you,"
he said, "as you love me, to give up your schemes. Leave the wrong-doer to
be punished by God. His vengeance is stronger and surer than ours."
It was a critical moment.
The girl indeed did not understand the reason which moved Fannius to speak in
this way. She fancied that he was more concerned for her safety than for
anything else. Still his entreaty weighed greatly with her. He was a dying man,
and the last requests of the dying are hard to refuse; and she felt, too, that
she owed him some redress. The words "I promise" were almost on her
lips. Had she spoken them the fate of many persons with whom our story is
concerned might have been different. But at the very moment she [209] was about
to speak there came a sudden interruption.
An official sent to inspect
the prison had discovered the change which the keeper of the Tullianum had
taken upon himself to make in the custody of Fannius. As he had been specially
instructed to allow no relaxation in the severity of imprisonment, he at once
directed that the man should be carried back to the dungeon from which he had
been transferred. The jailer in vain represented that the prisoner was dying.
"That makes no difference," was the answer. "I must obey my
orders," and he pushed his way, followed by two attendants, into the
chamber of death.
"There he is," he
cried to the men; "carry him back, dead or alive."
At the sound of his voice,
Epicharis rose from where she had been kneeling by the bedside, and confronted
the two men.
"You shall not touch
him," she cried.
The attendants fell back astonished,
so majestic was she in the white heat of her wrath.
"Thrust her
aside," cried their more hardened master, from where he stood in the
background.
The men hesitated; she
might have a weapon in her dress, and looked quite capable of dealing a mortal
blow.
The inspector, infuriated
at this delay, now himself made a forward movement.
[210] At
this moment a voice from behind changed the woman's mood.
"Epicharis!" said
the dying man feebly.
She turned to him with a
gesture of tenderness.
"Hinder them
not," he whispered. "I can die as easily there as here. Kiss me,
dearest. The Lord Christ bless and keep you, and bring
us to meet again."
She stooped to kiss him.
Even the brutal official could not interrupt this parting. When it was over, his victim was out of the reach of his cruelty. Fannius was dead.
SURRENDER
[211] POPPAEA and her advisers were not inclined,
it may easily be supposed, to rest satisfied with their double defeat in the
matter of Pomponia. That she had escaped from the illegal violence of the first
attack was vexatious enough, but it was a thing that had to be endured. It was
a different thing when she was found to have eluded a legal order for her
arrest. The question was, how was the hiding-place of
the fugitives to be discovered? Nothing was learnt by the strictest inquiries
at Subrius' country house. The inmates, some of whom Tigellinus did not scruple
to torture, evidently knew nothing about the matter. The two ladies had
disappeared a few hours before the arrival of the arresting party; beyond that,
nothing could be learnt. Supposed confessions, which were wrung out of one of
the slaves, were found not to lead to any discoveries. It was soon seen that
they were fictions, produced to obtain an immediate release from pain, as
confessions obtained by pressure of torture frequently were. A more hopeful
plan was to search through the multitude of arrested persons for some one who
might really be willing and able to give such information as would [212] lead
to a discovery. Slaves who had been in Pomponia's household in
Even then Poppæa and her
friends did not seem much nearer to the attainment of their object. Questioned
as to whether he was acquainted with Pomponia's hiding-place, he did not affect
to deny it. His sturdy principle forbade him to speak anything but the truth,
however much it might be to his own injury. But at this acknowledgment he
stopped. He could not, indeed, bring his lips to say the thing that was not;
but beyond this he did not feel his obligation to go. Any information that
might help the persecutors to secure their prey, he resolutely refused to give.
Bribes were tried at first; they were contemptuously rejected. Threats were
freely used, but seemed to make no impression. Torture was then employed. The
old Roman rule that it was never to be applied to free persons had long since
fallen into neglect. For some years past persons of much
higher rank than the old steward had been exposed to it. When even
Senators and knights had been stretched on the rack, and tortured with the
heated plates of metal, it was not likely that an insignificant freedman would
escape. (Footnote: It was an exception when
torture was applied to any free person of rank. Probably it was an abuse of
power, or used in very exceptional cases, as in suspected conspiracy against
the Emperor's life; but insignificant persons were often subjected to it, and a
freedman was held to be almost in the same position as a slave.)
But even torture seemed
little likely to be successful. Indeed, the limits of its possible application
were very soon reached. Phlegon was old and feeble; a few minutes sufficed to
throw him into a long faint from which it was no easy matter to recall him. The
physician slave, who was in attendance, to guard against this very risk, warned
the executioner that another application would very probably be fatal.
Yet, curiously enough, the
very patience and courage of the sufferer helped to reveal the secret which he
would gladly have given his life to keep. Phlegon had been confined in the
Tullianum, though not in one of its lower dungeons; and the jailer, as being
responsible for his prisoners, had been present when the torture was applied.
Hardened as he was by more than twenty years of office, the events of the last
few days had touched him. He had seen innocent men suffer before, but never men
of quite the same stamp as Fannius and Phlegon. So full was he of the feelings
thus raised, that as soon as he was released from his duties, he went to talk
the subject over with his friends, the temple servant and his wife. And thus
the tidings reached Claudia. From Pomponia herself all such things were
carefully kept.
Statia had not heard from
the jailer the name of the sufferer; but Claudia recognized in her descrip-
[215] tion of him Pomponia's steward. And when she further heard that he was
being tortured in order to compel him to reveal the hiding-place of a noble lady
who was accused of being a Christian, any doubt that she may have had of his
identity was removed.
It was with the greatest
difficulty that the girl retained her self-control, while her hostess gossiped
on, repeating, in her usual fashion, the description of the suffering and the
fortitude of Phlegon, which the jailer had given her. Left at last to think
over the matter, she was in sore perplexity. Should she keep what she had heard
to herself, or should she communicate it to Pomponia? She could not, of course,
entirely forget that her own life was at stake, and she grew sick and faint
when she remembered the horrors of which she had been told. Still it was not this, it was her duty to Pomponia, that made her hesitate.
Pomponia, beyond all doubt, would give herself up to save the old man's life.
But would she save it? Would she not be only sacrificing her own? The old man
was most certainly doomed. Why should another be uselessly involved in his
fate? All this seemed reasonable enough. Still she could not persuade herself
that it was right. What would Pomponia herself say? Supposing that she kept the
matter from her now, would she ever be able to reveal it? Could she ever go to
her and say, "I knew that your faithful servant was being tortured, and I
kept it from you?" This thought in the end decided her. [216] It must, she felt, be wrong so to act that there would be a
lifelong secret between herself and her nearest friend.
Her resolution once arrived
at, she lost no time in carrying it out.
"Mother," she said to Pomponia, "the persecutors have laid hands
on Phlegon, and have tortured him to wring out the secret of our
hiding-place."
Pomponia's spirits had for
some time been drooping and depressed. She knew that her fellow-believers were
suffering. Why was she not among them? Why, when they were bravely confessing
their Lord, was she in hiding? And yet she could not bring herself to feel that
duty bade her deliver herself up, and still less that she ought to endanger her
young companion. Her courage rose instantaneously to the occasion.
"Brave old man!"
she cried. "And of course he has been silent. Nothing, I am sure, could
wring from his lips a word that was false or base. But he must not suffer. They
shall not have to ask him again. They shall hear what they want from me. But,
my child, what shall we do with you? "
"Can you ask, mother? " cried the girl. "Whithersoever you go, I go
also."
"Nay, my child,"
said Pomponia; "there is no need for that."
The girl stood up with
flashing eyes, a true daughter of kings. "I hope you do not hold me
unworthy [217] of your company. Mother," she added in a softer tone, while
she threw her arms round the elder woman's neck, "you will not bid me
leave you?"
"Let us pray,"
said Pomponia.
The two women knelt together, hand clasped in hand. Such supplications,
whether expressed in words, or only conceived in the heart, are too sacred to
be written down. They rose comforted and strengthened,
the path of duty plain before them. Whatever burden it might be the will of
their Master to put upon them, they would bear it together.
"Bid our hostess send for a litter," said Pomponia. "We will go
without delay to the palace."
An hour afterwards as Nero
sat in council with Poppæa and Tigellinus a freedman announced that the Lady Pomponia,
together with Claudia, daughter of Cogidumnus, King of the Regni in Britain,
were below, and awaited the Emperor's pleasure.
Poppæa's eyes gleamed with
a sinister joy.
On the other hand, neither
Nero nor his Minister were particularly pleased. Tigellinus' spies and agents, of whom he had a vast number in
"How is it your
pleasure to deal with them, Sire?" asked Tigellinus after a short pause.
"Let them be sent to
the Tullianum," cried Poppæa, carried by her spite out of her usual prudence.
Nero turned upon them with
an angry scowl.
"Peace, woman,"
he shouted in a voice of thunder. "You know not what you say. These ladies
are ten times better born than you."
The
Empress, furious as she was at the rebuff, choked down her rage, and murmured,
"As you will, Sire."
"Let them be handed
over to the keeping of Lateranus till it be convenient to hear their
case," was the Emperor's decision.
"The Emperor
remembers," said Tigellinus, "that Lateranus is the nephew of the
Lady Pomponia."
"I know it,"
answered the Emperor. "It will serve well enough. She will be honourably
kept and safely. That is enough. See that the necessary orders be given. Pardon
me, my dearest," he went on, turning to Poppæa. "I would not
willingly thwart you in anything, but there are reasons, which I am sure you
will see, if you give yourself time to [219] think. I will not ask you,"
he added with a bitter smile, "to be lenient to these prisoners because
they are women. That, I have found out, is scarcely a passport to a woman's
favour. But you must remember that Pomponia is the widow of a great general,
whose name is still remembered among the soldiers, while her companion is the
daughter of a King. You cannot deal with such as if they were the wife and
daughter of a freedman."
"You know best,
Sire," said the Empress in a voice from which she vainly endeavoured to
banish all traces of sulkiness.
"Thanks, my
Poppæa," replied Nero; "we shall doubtless agree. And
now to more serious business. This is the first draft of what I propose
to recite at the games."
Four years before Nero had
instituted what was to be a Roman rival to the Olympian games.
The second celebration was at hand, and he had been preparing a poem on the
Deification of Romulus, which he proposed to recite in public. It was this that
he now submitted to the criticism of his privy council.
EPICHARIS ACTS
[220] THE conspirators had not been
indifferent spectators of the events recorded in the preceding chapters.
Everything combined to raise their hopes. The Emperor seemed to be madly
rushing on to his own ruin. The monstrous freak, which common report more and
more confidently attributed to him, of burning his own capital, the revolting
cruelty with which he had sought to divert suspicion from himself to a set of
poor creatures, who, at the worst, were harmless fanatics, the unseemly
buffoonery by which he lowered his Imperial dignity, were all helping, they
thought, to overthrow the throne. Every day appeared to be giving to their
schemes a more certain prospect of success. As long as this was so, it
naturally seemed a mistake to hurry on their execution. Give the wretch time
enough, so they said to each other, and he will destroy himself; he will not
have a single friend left among nobles, people, or army.
There were some, the
Tribune Subrius among them, who chafed angrily at this delay. He never could
rid himself of the idea that he had already missed a great chance, when he
abandoned his plan [221] of striking down Nero in his private theatre, and he strongly
protested against losing more time. Conspiracies that are long in hatching
were, he knew, infallibly betrayed either by treachery or by chance.
"There are too many of us," he said to one of his military
confederates; "we are too powerful; had we been only a few desperate
fellows with nothing to lose, it would have been settled, and probably settled
in the right way, long ago.
In this impatient mood
Epichris found him a few days after that on which Fannius had breathed his
last. In the morning he had been present at a meeting of the conspirators, and
had again urged on them the necessity of speedy action. Pudens, who had been
formally enrolled among the associates, as heartily supported him. He agreed
with him in theory, and he found additional reason in the imminent danger of
Claudia, of which he had by this time become aware. Their arguments were in
vain; the majority overbore them.
The two friends, as they
discussed the question in Subrius' quarters, became more and more convinced
that in one way or another a crisis must be
precipitated.
"These men," said
Subrius to his companion, "are thinking of
something else besides the one thing needful, which is to get rid of the
tyrant. Laternus, for instance, is thinking about his own life; Piso is thinking
about his own chances of the Empire. Now [222] a man ought to care for nothing
but how he may drive home his blow."
"Right!" cried
Pudens. "Why should we not act for ourselves? Let us give them another
seven days, and then cast lots who shall strike, you or I."
"Agreed!" said
Subrius, stretching out his hand.
Just as he spoke, a soldier
servant knocked at the door of the room, and, bidden to enter, announced that a
young man wished to speak with the Tribune.
"Show him in,"
said the Prætorian, and the visitor was ushered into the room.
The newcomer wore the heavy
hood which the Romans commonly used for purposes of disguise. Its depths hid
the features of the face more effectually, as the wearer carefully took a place
where the light fell from behind.
"Do I speak to Subrius
the Prætorian?" said the visitor.
"That is my
name," replied the soldier.
"And this?" the
speaker went on, indicating Pudens with a slight wave of the hand.
"My
friend, Marcus Annius Pudens, from whom I have no secrets."
"Then I may speak
freely?"
"Certainly."
Throwing back the hood, the
visitor revealed the features of Epicharis.
Pudens had never seen her
before, but Subrius immediately remembered the features of the girl whom [223]
he had seen speaking to Fannius in the
The name of the
ex-gladiator, whom, indeed, he had missed for some days, without knowing
anything of his fate, naturally rose to his lips.
"And Fannius?" he
said. "How does he fare?"
"I have now another
besides Octavia to avenge," answered the girl in a low voice.
"What?" cried the
Prætorian. "Hath any evil overtaken him?"
Epicharis told him the
story that we know. When she had finished she went on: "Fannius told me—it
was when we were newly betrothed,"—the girl's voice broke for a moment as
she uttered the word, but was firm again the next moment,—"that there were
some who were minded not to suffer the wrongs which Rome has suffered to go
unpunished any longer. He gave me no names; I asked him for none, though I
think I can keep a secret. But ever since I first knew him he used to speak of
you; and to you, accordingly, I have come. Let me speak plainly. If you have in
your mind the purpose that I suppose you to have, let me help you. I have now
only one thing to live for, to punish the monster who
first killed my mistress, and then did to death my lover. If you have no such
thoughts, if you think me a criminal for cherishing them, then give me up to
Nero. I shall be content, for I have no more desire to live."
[224] The
situation in which Subrius found himself was perplexing in the extreme. That
the woman was in earnest he did not doubt for a moment. He had heard, we know,
her story from Fannius, and had been greatly impressed by it. And now her look,
her words, carried with them an irresistible conviction of her earnestness; but
he hesitated. The lives and fortunes of others besides himself
were at stake. To confide in a woman was certainly a novel experiment, and at
first sight at least dangerous. If failure was the result, how overpowering the
shame and the disgrace of having made it. After a hurried review of the
circumstances he resolved to temporize. Probably he was wrong. Everything did
go wrong in this unlucky undertaking. But almost every one, viewing the
circumstances as he viewed them, would have said that he was right.
"Lady," he began,
"I will be as frank with you as you have been with me. If you have put
your life in my hands, so will I put mine in yours. I
do not deny that I and my friends have had the purposes of which you speak,
yes, and have them still. But these things are not done in a hurry; we must
watch our time, our opportunity; when that comes we shall not be wanting, nor
shall we fail, if we need your help, to ask for it. Till then we must be
patient and silent."
Epicharis was bitterly
disappointed at this procrastinating answer. She was not in a mood to wait and
be patient. Action, immediate action, was an im- [225] perative necessity. She
rose to go, wrapping the hood again round her face.
"I am only a
woman," she said, "and know less and can do less than you; yet I
think that you are wrong. You say that these things cannot be done in a hurry;
it seems to me that they must be so done, if they are to be done at all."
The next moment she was
gone.
"By all the gods in
heaven, she is right!" cried Subrius to Pudens when they found themselves
alone. "I wish that I could have trusted her. But it was impossible. If any mishap were to come of it, what would not the others have
said—'wheedled out of his senses by a woman,' and all the rest of it. It
would be intolerable. And yet, I have a feeling that it would have been
better."
Better it would certainly
have been.
Epicharis, as has been
said, was not content to wait. If Subrius would not help her, where, she asked
herself, could she find some one who would? In a moment, for she was in that
condition of exaltation and excitement when ideas have a rapid birth, a daring
scheme presented itself to her mind. Nowhere was Nero more easily approached
than when he was at one of his favourite seaside haunts. There he was
accustomed to dispense with the etiquette and ceremony which surrounded him at
Resolving to seek such an
accomplice herself, the first necessity that she perceived was of an effectual
disguise. The man's dress which she had assumed in order to find her way to the
quarters of Subrius had served its purpose well enough on that occasion. But it
would not now suffice, and she accordingly resolved to assume the character of
a singing-girl. This she could do with great ease; she had a particularly sweet
voice, and could sing and play with more than usual skill. A further disguise
was secured by wearing Syrian dress and ornaments, and by adding a deeper brown
to her complexion. Another device, which she felt might be useful in carrying
out her scheme, was to pretend ignorance of any language but Greek, except so
far as the use of a few words of broken Latin might go.
|
|
Thus apparelled and
equipped, she made her way down to Misenum, where a squadron of the fleet was
stationed. She began by singing outside the wine shops to which the sailors
were accustomed to resort, and speedily achieved a great success. Her
reputation as an accomplished performer spread among the higher circles, and it
was not long before she was en- [227] gaged to perform at a banquet given by
one of the captains to his colleagues. Other similar invitations followed. As
the guests spoke freely before her, presuming on her supposed ignorance of
Latin, while she always kept her ears open, and listened with an eager
attention which suffered nothing to escape her, she soon learnt much about the
characters and tempers of the officers in command.
One of these men, Proculus
by name, she recognized as an old acquaintance. He had once been in command of
the yacht which belonged to Agrippina, the Emperor's mother. It was one of the
very few pleasures of Octavia's unhappy life to join her mother-in-law in
occasional excursions round the Campanian coast. At these times Epicharis had
often been in waiting, and Proculus had regarded her with much admiration. She
gathered now from words that he let drop in her hearing, and from what was said
by others, that he was in a dissatisfied frame of
mind. He was accustomed to talk vaguely of great services which he had rendered
to the Emperor, and which had received a very inadequate reward. This seemed to
promise some sort of an opening, and she resolved, in default of anything
better, to avail herself of it. It is true that she did not like or trust the
man. In old times he had not been a favourite; his openly expressed admiration
had, on the contrary, been extremely offensive to her. But she was almost in
despair. She had not found in the fleet any of the [228] explosive material, so
to speak, which she had hoped to discover there. Nero seemed to be highly
popular. He mixed freely with the sailors, treated them in a friendly fashion,
and was liberal in his presents. Still, for her present purpose, one such
adherent as Proculus would suffice. Carried out of herself by her eagerness for
revenge, with her mind, in fact, thrown off its balance by this excitement, she
resolved to make the trial.
One day, in the course of
an entertainment, Proculus had paid her some compliment on her musical skill
and gone on to express his admiration for her beauty. Crushing down disgust at
his advances, for the man was personally odious to her, Epicharis gave an
answer that encouraged further conversation, and induced him, with no little
skill, to speak of himself, his disappointments, and his claims. Artfully
expressing a sympathetic surprise that he had not reached a position more
commensurate with his merits, of which he had indeed an unbounded opinion, she
led him on to use language which certainly had an almost treasonable sound. As
a matter of fact, this talk was mere bluster. He would not have used it to any
one who would, he thought, have taken it seriously. But this was exactly what
Epicharis did. When she judged that he had to a certain extent committed
himself, she revealed her identity. The man, though somewhat confused with the
wine which he had been drinking, at once perceived that there was something
[229] serious in the affair. Epicharis he had almost forgotten, but he was
perfectly well aware that Octavia had left devoted friends behind her. He
listened with attention when she began to hint at the scheme which was in her
mind. She would tell him no names, but she gave him to understand that there
were powerful people behind her, people who would be able and willing to
remunerate him handsomely for any service that he might render. Only, she was
careful to impress upon him, he must lose no time; he must not let any one else
anticipate him.
For a time the man wavered.
It might be worth his while, he thought, to make the venture. It might be
possible to secure a position really worth having under a new order of things.
He was ambitious, so far as a greedy, pleasure-loving temper could make him so,
and for a few moments he seemed to see within his reach great power and wealth,
and all the opportunities of pleasure which these two things command. And
though he was a dull, brutal, utterly selfish creature, the enthusiasm of
Epicharis, backed as it was by the charm of her beauty, touched his fancy if
not his heart.
But when the magic of her
presence was removed, he began to see impossibilities in the way which had not
occurred to him before. In fact, the man's past was such that if Epicharis had
but known it, he would have been the very last person in the world in whom she
would have confided. The services [230] which he had rendered to Nero, and for
which he conceived himself to have been insufficiently paid, were such as to
put an absolutely impassable gulf between him and the revolutionists. He had
been Nero's tool in the perpetration of the very worst of his crimes, the
murder of his mother. It was he who had been in command of the yacht in which
she nearly met with her death. He was actually present and assisting when the
hideous deed was finally accomplished. Nero might not be duly grateful for such
services, but from any one else they would meet with no other reward than the
halter or the axe. When Nero had received his due, then those who had helped to
rid him of his mother and his wife would not be long in meeting with theirs.
Epicharis' schemes, therefore, had, when he came to examine them, nothing
attractive about them. Still, as he soon began to reflect, they might be made
to yield a profit. Why not use them to put Nero under a second obligation? Why
not give information of them, and pose as the saviour of the Emperor's life?
This last purpose was
almost immediately carried out. Before the next day had dawned Proculus was at
Antium, where Nero was then residing, and in the course of a few hours
Tigellinus was in possession of all that he had to communicate. The Minister
acted promptly. Epicharis, who had been eagerly waiting for some communication
from Proculus, was arrested in her lodging by a Centurion, conveyed in a litter
to [231] the Emperor's villa at Antium, and almost immediately after confronted
with her accuser.
She did not lose her
self-possession and presence of mind for a moment. Proculus told his story,
not, of course, without exaggeration, and the addition of details which made it
more picturesque and effective. She met it with a flat denial. He had no
witnesses to produce; and for the present, at least, her word was as good as
his.
As for herself, she made no
attempt at concealment. She had been a waiting woman of the Empress, and she
had loved her mistress.
Questioned as to the reason
why she had disguised herself as a singing-girl, she smiled and shrugged her
shoulders. It was partly, she explained, a frolic, but chiefly because she was
desperately poor. "My mistress," she explained with the utmost
simplicity of manner, "left me a legacy, which would have put me beyond
poverty; but it has not yet been paid to me."
The shaft struck home, as
it had been intended to strike, though the intention was admirably concealed.
Nero blushed and winced. He had had the meanness to refuse, or, rather, to
postpone indefinitely, the payment of the few legacies which Octavia had left
to her attendants.
Every inquiry she met with
the same imperturbable composure. She missed no opportunity of planting a sting
in the consciences of her questioners—if consciences they had; but no one could
be sure that [232] it was done with intention. In the end, she came out of the
cross-examination, which was protracted and severe, without having made a
single damaging admission.
When accuser and accused were removed from the presence, the Emperor summed up the case after this fashion. "Well, the woman has much more the look of telling the truth than the man. And he is, I know, a thorough scoundrel. However, where there is smoke there is pretty sure to be fire. See that she is kept in safe custody, Tigellinus, but don't let any harm come to her. We shall see what happens."
THE PLOT THICKENS
[233] THE arrest and detention of Epicharis
was soon known to the conspirators at
Still the incident was
alarming, and made the necessity of immediate action more pressing than ever. A
meeting of the conspirators, who now numbered more than fifty in all, itself a
most dangerous circumstance, was held without delay. At this it was unanimously
resolved, almost without discussion, that the attempt
must be made at the very first convenient opportunity. The Tribune Subrius, who
was generally recognized as one of the most daring of the associates, and who,
if it had only been permitted, would have struck the blow long before, was
invited to give his opinion as to the time, the place, and the manner of the
deed, which, it must be understood, was nothing else than the assassination of
Nero.
Subrius
had thought out his plan, and had the [234] details ready. "In my judgment," he
said," we have already waited too long; but of that it is now useless to
speak, except so far as to prove that we should wait no longer. We are in
imminent danger. A woman, who knows at least the names of two of us, is in
prison on this very charge; and though I know her to be brave and steadfast
beyond the habit of her sex, the peril that lies in her knowledge is great. Let
us anticipate it. To-night Nero goes to Bai?, and
takes up his abode in the villa of Caius Piso. There is no place where he lives
in so little state; and state, with the multitudes of guards and attendants
that it implies, is the same thing as safety. I propose that the deed be done
to-morrow, and I offer myself as the doer of it. Suffer me to choose the hour,
and also my companion, for more than one I shall not need."
A murmur of applause
followed the speech. When it had subsided, all eyes were turned to Piso. His
approval was necessary, not only as being the owner of the villa, but as being,
so to speak, the heir presumptive to the throne. Piso rose immediately.
"It vexes me," he
said, "to differ, as my conscience compels me, from the counsel of a most
gallant and energetic gentleman. You have thought me worthy of succeeding to
the dignity about to be left vacant by the most merited punishment of him who
now unworthily occupies it. But I cannot consent to polluting the first
auspices of my rule by an [235] atrocious crime. It is not that I think the
slaughter of an impious and bloodstained wretch to be anything but a worthy
deed; it is that the vilest of mankind may gain pity, and even pardon, by the
manner of his death. Nero, indeed, deserves to die; but that he should perish,
a guest at the table of his host, while he is enjoying in security the
entertainment which I offer to him, would be a thing equally odious to both
gods and men. Power acquired by such a crime could not be exercised with
benefit either to the Roman people or myself. Both as
a private man, to whom the sanctity of his house is as precious as it is to all
good citizens, or as the man about to be called by your suffrage to the
Imperial power, I refuse my consent to the execution of this plan."
There was a general feeling
of disappointment, and even dismay, when Piso sat down. It was generally felt
that the reason which he had given for his dissent was both true and false: so
far true that no one could dispute its validity; so far false that it did not
express his whole mind. It was founded, not on a scruple, but a fear. Assure
him of the succession, and he would have struck Nero as he sat at his table,
with his own hand, all laws of hospitality notwithstanding. It was the obstacle
that such a deed might be to this succession that he feared. He was not
indispensable; to many he would not be the most eligible candidate for power.
The scale might be thus finally turned against him. There might be a [236]
general agreement on some rival who would begin the new reign unstained by
crime. Such a rival he had in his mind, a man of blameless morals and of race
as noble as his own, with the added distinction of being a descendant of
Augustus. (Footnote: This was Lucius Junius
Torquatus Silanus. His grandmother was AEmilia Lepida, the great granddaughter
of Augustus.) Still, whatever his motives, his decision was final.
The next speaker was a
Senator, Scævinus by name.
"Three days
hence," he said, "the Feast of Ceres begins. The Emperor will
certainly attend on the last day. Then will be our chance. When
he comes down from his box, as he always does, will be the time."
"That," said
Subrius, "puts it off for eleven days more, (Footnote:
The festival lasted for eight days, the grand day being the last, when an
exhibition was given in the Circus.) and no one knows
what may happen in that time. Still, I shall be ready."
Scævinus stood up again.
"The help of our friend Subrius will be welcome then as always; but I
claim the chief part in the deed for myself; it is my hand that must strike the
first blow."
A murmur of surprise ran
through the meeting. No one had ever been able to guess why Scævinus had
associated himself with the enterprise. He was a man of dissolute life, who had
never shown any kind of energy except in the pursuit of pleasure. As [237] for
his present demand, it was nothing less than astonishing. However, it could not
well be refused; the meeting had accepted the scheme, and its proposer must be
allowed to take the chief share in it.
Subrius shrugged his
shoulders. "What does the man mean?" he whispered to his next
neighbour. "No one more unfit could have been found if we had searched
The Tribune's feelings were
shared by others, especially the soldiers; and there were manifest signs of
dissent.
At this point Lateranus
rose. "Suffer me to explain what we propose. I have a private request to
make of the Emperor; as we are all friends here, I don't mind saying that it is
a petition for a grant out of the privy purse in aid
of the expenses of my Consulship. He has had notice that I am going to prefer it;
he likes to make a parade of his liberality, and so he will not be surprised
when I ask him this favour in public. I shall throw myself down on my knees
before him, when he comes down from his box, and take care to do it in such a
way as to upset him. When he is once down I shall not let him get up again.
Then will be the time for all my friends who desire to have a hand in the
affair to run up and do their best to rid the world of this monster. All that Scævinus
de- [238] mands is the glory of being allowed to strike the first blow!"
This explanation put a new
and more satisfactory face on the matter. Lateranus was a man of huge stature
and of great personal strength; of his courage and resolution there was no
question.
"That sounds
better," said the Prætorian to his friend. "Practically, Lateranus
takes the first part; he is in every way fit for it, and besides, he has an
unimpeachable reason for approaching the Emperor. Scævinus' privilege of
striking the blow is only a concession to his trumpery vanity, which, I
suppose, we need not grudge him. If he does not make haste about it, when his
turn comes, I know that I for one shall not wait for him. And yet I can't help
wishing that the silly fool had nothing to do with it. He may make a failure of
it all yet."
A few more details remained
to be arranged. It was obviously inexpedient that all the conspirators should
take part in the assassination. Some would have to manage the not less
important business of suggesting a successor. Accordingly a division of forces
was made. Fifteen would be quite as many as were wanted to make sure of the
Emperor's death. These were to find places as near as possible to the steps
which led down from the Emperor's box into the arena. Others were to be
scattered in prominent places about the building, and were to shout, as soon as
the deed was done, "Hail, Caius Piso, Cæsar Augustus Imperator!"
[239] For
the rest of the conspirators a still more important function was reserved. The
voices of the people were of little account without the consent and approval of
the soldiers. Piso, it was arranged, was to be in waiting in the
During the intervening days
nothing of importance occurred. Nero paid his proposed visit to Piso's villa at
Bai?. From thence he came to
Meanwhile the secret of the
conspiracy was kept with a fidelity that, considering the number of the persons
engaged, was in the last degree astonishing. On the eve of the appointed day
everything was hope and confidence. Unfortunately there was one element of
weakness, and that one was to have disastrous consequences.
BETRAYED
[241] SCAEVINUS had been for some time repenting,
if not of his share in the conspiracy, certainly of the impulse which had
prompted him to demand the most prominent place in the execution of its
purpose. It was now impossible to draw back; if pride had not forbidden—and with
all his weakness he was still a Roman—his associates might suspect him of
treachery, and summarily silence him. The only thing left for him was to
fortify his courage as best he could.
His first step was to
choose for the deed what he conceived to be a peculiarly lucky weapon. Though,
like most of his contemporaries, he believed in little or nothing, he was
curiously superstitious, a combination of apparent opposites which has never
been uncommon, and which in the pleasure-loving society of
This, unfortunately, was
only the beginning of follies. On the evening of the 18th of April he invited
his freedmen to a sumptuous dinner, to which he carefully gave the character of
a farewell entertainment. During the repast he was by turns obstreperously gay
and depressed even to tears. After dinner he followed up the usual libation to
the gods by drinking to the memories of the Elder and the Younger Brutus. This
done he drew the sacred dagger from its sheath and handed it to the most
trusted of his freedmen, Milichus by name, with the injunction to get it
sharpened. "Mind," he said at the same time, "that you see to
the point, that it be properly sharp, for it has a
great work to do." When the weapon was brought back he had other
instructions scarcely less significant to give.
"See, Milichus,"
he said to the freedman, "that you have plenty of bandages ready. One can
never tell how soon they may be wanted."
The bandages duly provided,
he proceeded to execute with the usual solemnities a new will. When this had
been signed and sealed, he seemed still un- [243] satisfied. "Why,"
he said to his guests, "should you wait for my death before you can enjoy
my liberality, though indeed you will very likely not have to wait long."
Two favourite slaves were
called up and set free. To others he gave presents of money. To the freedmen at
his table he distributed keepsakes, rings, bracelets, writing-tablets, and
valuables of all sorts. He might have been a father on his deathbed bidding
farewell to his children with an appropriate remembrance of each. And this was
the more remarkable because Scævinus, in ordinary life, was not a particularly
generous person.
For some time Milichus had
noticed a curious change in his patron's demeanour. Ordinarily, as has been
said, Scævinus was not a man who took life seriously, and Milichus' sole
employment had been to minister to his pleasures. For some months past all this
had been changed. He had, to a certain extent, reformed his ways, and had
assumed a more than proportionate gravity of demeanour. Not infrequently he had
dropped hints of important business which he had in hand, and great functions
in the State which he might be called upon to perform.
If these things had not
aroused definite suspicions in Milichus they had certainly prepared him to
entertain them when he witnessed the proceedings just related. That his patron had something on his mind, and that this something
was approaching a critical [244] time, he now felt convinced. When,
shortly before
The two discussed the
matter for a long time. The woman was far more decided than her husband in her views, both of what was going on and of what he ought to do.
"Depend upon it," she said, "this is a big thing, and means a
chance for you and me such as we never had before, and are not likely to have
again. My belief is that there is something on foot against people who are very
high up indeed. Go to the palace at once,—that is my advice,—and tell the
people there what you have seen."
The freedman hesitated. He
had a feeling of kindness for his patron, stronger, perhaps, than he would have
had for a better man. Scævinus had given him his liberty, had made him some
handsome presents, and treated him generally with the kindness which commonly goes
a long way further than money. It was always an odious thing for a freedman to
turn against his patron; in his case it was particularly hateful. And then, if
the whole business should turn out to have meant nothing at all! That would
mean simple ruin and disgrace.
The wife took a more
severely practical view of the situation. Of the personal feeling she made no
account whatever. Naturally she did not share it herself, for Scævinus was
almost a stranger to her. [245] Anyhow she was sure that it must not stand in
the way of business. Of the risk of being found to have made a groundless
charge she made light. The circumstances were too suspicious. They must mean something. She wound up with the most cogent
argument of all. "There were others present, you say, freedmen and slaves.
Do you suppose that you were the only one who saw anything strange in the
Senator's behaviour? If you don't go to the palace, you may depend upon it some
one else will. And if anybody anticipates you, where will you be? It was you to
whom he gave the dagger to sharpen; you who had to prepare the bandages; it is
you, therefore, who are bound to speak. You won't save your patron by holding
your tongue, you will only lose your own chance, and
very likely involve yourself in his ruin."
This reasoning was too much
for Milichus. "I will go," he said, "though I hate it."
"And at once,"
cried the wife. "There is not a moment to be lost."
The energetic woman seized
him by the arm, and hurried him off. The day was just beginning to dawn, and it
was only just light when the two reached the Pavilion gardens, where Nero was
residing. At that untimely hour they had some difficulty in making themselves
heard, and the porter, when roused, summarily bade them go about their
business. Milichus would gladly have availed himself of the excuse, and
postponed his odious task, but his wife was made of [246] sterner stuff. She
warned the doorkeeper that if he refused to admit them, he would do so at his
own peril; they had come, she said, on urgent business, in fact, on a matter of
life or death. Thus urged, the man gave way, and admitted the visitors, feeling
that he would thus at least shift the responsibility from off his own
shoulders. He sent the couple on to Epaphroditus, who may be described as the
Emperor's Private Secretary.
Epaphroditus heard the
outline of Milichus' story, and recognizing the gravity of the facts,
determined that Nero himself should hear them without delay.
At first the Emperor was
but little disposed to believe. He had a profound belief in his own
inviolability, and the breaking down of the charge which Proculus had brought
against Epicharis, had confirmed him in his incredulity. The sight of the
dagger which Milichus, at his wife's suggestion, had brought with him, rather staggered
him. It proved nothing, it is true. Still the sight of an actual weapon, which
it was possible might be used against himself, seemed to make the whole thing
closer and more real.
"Send for Scævinus,"
he said to his Secretary. "Let us confront him with this fellow, and hear
what he has to say."
Scævinus, who had just
risen from his bed, and was already disturbed by finding that Milichus had
gone, no one knew whither, and had taken the dagger with him, was still further
alarmed by the arrival of a [247] quaternion of soldiers, bearing an order for
his arrest. When, however, he was brought within the Emperor's presence, his
courage rose to the occasion. The story of the dagger he ridiculed.
"It belongs to my
family," he said, and briefly told the story connected with it. "I
found that it was being devoured by rust, and took it down from the wall. I may
have told this fellow to clean it, but certainly said nothing else. As for the
bandages, that is a pure fiction, invented to back up the other story. As for
the new will, I have often made wills, as any of my friends can testify; as for
the presents that I made to my freedmen and slaves, what is there in that? It
is my way to be liberal to them, perhaps beyond my means. Answer me,
Milichus," he went on, turning to the informer, "have you not had
money and valuables from me many times?"
The freedman acknowledged
that this was so.
"And now, Cæsar,"
said Scævinus, "to be perfectly frank, as indeed the occasion demands, I
have a special reason for being generous, if it is generous to give what is
scarcely one's own. My affairs are not prosperous, and my creditors have begun
to press me. Legacies would be of no use if there should be a balance on the
wrong side when my estate is wound up; services have been rendered me which it
was a matter of honour to repay, and I felt that I could do it only by
gifts."
The accused spoke so calmly
and coolly, and with [248] such an appearance of frankness, that the Emperor
was staggered.
"It is the Epicharis
case over again," he said to Tigellinus, who had by this time been
summoned. "People seem to be making a trade of these lying accusations.
They shall find that they are not to my taste."
Scævinus saw his advantage,
and pursued it. "I ask you, Cæsar, to protect me against the
unfaithfulness and falsehood of this man, this villain, who owes to me all that
he has, and now seeks to raise himself higher on the
ruins of my fortune. About other things I care not so much, but it is terrible
that he should seek to make a profit for himself out of the loss of my honour.
Cæsar, I implore your protection against him."
"And you shall have
it, Scævinus," said the Emperor. "As for you," he went on in a
voice of thunder, turning to the freedman, "you have a patron who is far
too good for you. Henceforth he will treat you, I hope, as you deserve. He has
my leave to squeeze out of you again all that he has given you, to the
uttermost drop. Assuredly it was the unhappiest hour of your life when you came
to me with this cock-and-bull story of a dagger and bandages. And now,
Tigellinus," he went on, "it is time to be getting ready for the
Circus."
The freedman stood struck
dumb with disappointment and dismay. But his wife did not lose her courage and
presence of mind.
[249] "Ask him,"
she whispered, "whether he has not lately had many conferences with
Natalis, and whether he is not an intimate friend of Caius Piso's."
The freedman caught eagerly
at the suggestion. "Cæsar," said he, "ask Scævinus what dealings
he has lately had with Natalis and Caius Piso."
Scævinus could not repress
a start when he heard the names of two of the most prominent conspirators thus
openly joined with his own, and the start did not escape the watchful eye of
Tigellinus.
"There may be more in
this, Sire, than you think," he whispered in Nero's ear. "Natalis is
a notorious busy-body, and Piso is the most dangerous man in
"What do you advise, then?" asked the Emperor, impressed by his
Minister's earnestness.
"Send for
Natalis," replied Tigellinus, "and question him; but don't question
him in the presence of the accused. Ask them separately what they have been
interesting themselves in; if there is anything that they don't want to have
known, they will certainly contradict each other."
The suggestion was immediately
carried out. Natalis, arrested just as he was setting out for the Circus, and
having a dagger actually concealed upon his person, lost his presence of mind.
Interrogated by Tigellinus as to the business discussed at recent interviews
with Scævinus, with a scribe sitting close by to take down his words, he
hesitated and stam- [250] mered. His invention seemed to fail him as well as
his courage. At last he managed to blunder out a few words to the effect that Scævinus
had been consulting him about the best way of investing some sums of money
which would shortly be coming in to him from the paying off of sundry mortgages
and loans. This was a peculiarly unlucky venture in the face of Scævinus'
recent confession of poverty. Tigellinus smiled an evil smile as he listened.
Natalis caught the look, and stammered worse than ever, for he knew that he had
blundered.
"Thank you, my
friend," said the Minister in the blandest of voices. "I am sure that
the Senator Scævinus is a lucky man to have so admirable an adviser. Still you
will pardon me for saying that you are a trifle obscure in your description. It
will be instructive to call in the Senator himself, and hear his account of the
matter."
Scævinus accordingly was
brought in. The look of terror which came over his face as soon as he caught
sight of Natalis was as good as a confession. Tigellinus, who hated him, as he
hated every man better born and better bred than himself, smiled again.
"The Emperor," he
began, in his soft, unctuous voice, "who feels a paternal interest in the
affairs of his subjects, is anxious to know what was the
subject of discussion when you were closeted yesterday so long with our
friend Natalis."
[251] Scævinus, who had by
this time recovered his self-possession, answered without hesitation. His
course was, it need hardly be said, clear before him. Indeed, he congratulated
himself on the happy thought of having pleaded his poverty to the Emperor.
"I was consulting my
friend about raising a loan on more moderate interest than what I am now
paying." The Emperor laughed outright.
"Scribe," said
Tigellinus to the slave who had been taking down the depositions in
shorthand—for shorthand was an art well known to the Romans by that
time,—"scribe, read aloud the answer of Antonius Natalis."
"One of you has
certainly lied," said Tigellinus, "and
probably both; but there are means of making you speak the truth."
He made a sign to a guard
who stood at the door of the apartment. In a few minutes half-a-dozen slaves
appeared, bringing with them a rack and other instruments of torture.
Scævinus started at the
sight. "Cæsar," he cried, "is this with your permission? Torture to a Senator of
"Silence,
villain!" said the Minister. "You know that when the life of the
Emperor is concerned—and what else meant you by the dagger?—all means of
discovering the truth are permitted by the law."
The slaves began to prepare
the rack for use. Natalis lost all his fortitude at the ghastly sound of [252]
the creaking beams, as the executioners worked the hideous thing backwards and
forwards to see that it was in order.
"Spare me,
Caesar," he cried, falling on his knees, "and I will confess all that
I know."
Scævinus was not so lost to
shame. He hesitated. He was even ready, if his companion had backed him up, to
brave it out. But the cowardice of the other was contagious. If
Natalis was to save himself by confession, why not he? His friends were
lost anyhow; they would not fare one whit the worse for anything that he might
say.
"Caesar," he
said, still striving to keep up some show of dignity, "if you will deign
to listen, I have something to say."
Tigellinus gloated with
malignant pleasure over the man's useless humiliation. A Senator, offering to
betray his friends and refused! What could be more welcome hearing to a parvenu!
"Nay, sir," he
said; "we must observe due precedence. Every man
according to his rank. In honourable things the
Senator before the knight; in dishonourable the knight before the Senator.
Is not that so, Sire?"
"Yes," said Nero;
"speak on, Antonius Natalis. Meanwhile let our honourable Senator be
removed. It has already been very interesting to observe how his account of
things differed from his confederate's, and it may be interesting again."
VACILLATION
[253] SCAEVINUS — for we must do the poor cowardly
wretch such justice as he deserves — had made an effort to save his friends,
and, one ought perhaps to add, himself. While Natalis was being interrogated,
he entered into conversation with the slave who had been told off to attend on
him. The slave was a young man of mixed Greek and Asiatic race, with an
extremely intelligent countenance, but sickly and lame. It was impossible for
any one with the least insight into character to look at him and to hear him
speak without perceiving that there was something out of the common about him.
In after years he was to become one of the most notable exponents of the Stoic
philosophy, for this Phrygian cripple was no less a person than the philosopher
Epictetus. At the time of which I am writing he was only a feeble lad with,
however, a certain air of ability and courage which greatly impressed an
intelligent observer. Scævinus, feeling that his situation
was practically desperate, resolved to make a last effort. If it failed
he could hardly be in a worse position than the present; if it succeeded it was
just possible [254] that the fortunes of the conspiracy might yet be retrieved.
"Can you take a
message for me to a friend?" he said in Greek to Epictetus.
The soldiers who were
guarding the door of the apartment heard without understanding.
"Certainly," said
the slave, "if any good is to be achieved."
"You shall have ten
gold pieces for your trouble."
"Nay, this is a thing
which I would sooner do without payment. That is not only more honourable, but
also more safe."
"I cannot write it,
indeed, there is no need; all that is needed can be said in a few words. Go to
Caius Piso, and say to him, 'All is discovered; act.' And
mind—not a word of this to any one else. Let not wild horses wring it
out of you. That would be fatal to both you and me."
The slave smiled.
"They might as well try to wring words out of a stump or a stone. For,
indeed, what else is a slave? When my old master kicked me and broke my
leg—" and he held out as he spoke the maimed limb—"I said, 'Why do
you damage your own property?' So I should say to them. If they choose to kill
me, that is their own lookout; all that concerns me, for a slave has something
of a man about him after all, as Aristotle says, is that I don't dishonour
myself."
When Scævinus was recalled
into the Emperor's [255] audience-chamber, Epictetus lost no time in making his
way to Piso's house. Some of the prominent persons connected with the
conspiracy were assembled, and were busy making their final arrangements for
the proceedings of the day.
Epictetus, as soon as he
was safe within the doors, wrote down on a tablet the following words:
"The bearer of a message from Scævinus asks for admission." He was
brought up without loss of time into an ante-chamber, where Piso saw him alone.
He delivered his message, and immediately departed.
Piso rejoined his assembled
friends, and told them what had happened. Subrius, with characteristic
promptitude, rose to the occasion.
"Piso," he said,
"the task before us is different from that which we had planned,—different
and possibly more difficult, but certainly not hopeless. We shall not proclaim
you Emperor after Nero is dead; we shall have to
proclaim you while he is yet alive. And I must own that the affair is now more
to my taste than it was. I was ready, as you know, to play the assassin, when
it was a question of delivering the human race from a tyrant; but I would
sooner play the soldier, and meet him in the field. That, Piso, is what we must
do. Let us go to the Forum, and appeal to the people, or, as I would rather
advise, to the camp, and appeal to the soldiers. In both places, among both
audiences, we shall have friends. They will shout their applause, and others,
who at present [256] know nothing of the matter, will join in. That is a line
of action for which, depend upon it, Nero is not prepared. Even brave men are
sometimes confounded by so sudden an attack; how will a stage-playing Emperor
and his miserable minion encounter it? Don't think for a moment that we can
escape; there are too many in the secret. Some one will be sure to sell his
honour for money, or find his courage ooze away in the presence of the rack.
Indeed, we know that the treachery has begun. Let us act, and at once, for even
while I am urging you on, opportunities are passing away."
These spirited words made
no impression on Piso's somewhat sluggish and inactive nature. He was one of
those men who are slow to move from their course, and have an inexhaustible
supply of passive endurance. He shrugged his shoulders.
"The Empire," he
said, "does not approve itself to me if it is to be won in a street
broil."
"I understand,"
said the soldier. "It would be more seemly, I acknowledge, if the Senate,
headed by the Magistrates, and the Prefects, and Tribunes of the Prætorians,
with the Vestal Virgins in the front of the whole procession, were to come and
salute you as Emperor. But that is not the question. The question is this: You
have two alternatives; think which suits your dignity, your name, your
ancestors, the better. One is to put your fortune to
the trial, if things go well, to be the successor of Augustus; if [257] the
fates will otherwise, to die, sword in hand. The other is to wait here till
Nero's myrmidons come to chain you, to drag you off to the place of execution;
or, if the tyrant strains his prerogative of mercy to the utmost, to suffer you
to fall on your own sword, or open your own veins."
Piso heard unmoved. His
courage was of the passive kind. He could meet death when it came with an
undaunted face, but he could not go, so to speak, to seek it.
"The gods have
declared against us, and I shall not resist their will. I thank you for your
good-will and your counsel; but you must permit a Piso to judge for himself
what best suits his own dignity and the glory of his ancestors. I am determined
to await my fate."
The bold spirit of the
Tribune was not crushed, nor his resources exhausted by this failure. There was
still a possible claimant to the throne in Lateranus. He had not, it is true,
the pretensions of Piso, neither his personal popularity nor his noble birth.
Still, he had courage, favour with some classes of the people, and a commanding
presence. Here another disappointment awaited him. Lateranus had been arrested.
Apparently, Nero had had the same thought that had occurred to the Prætorian,
that the Consul-elect was among the dangerous
characters of
"Who?" asked the soldier.
"Statius the
Tribune," replied the Chamberlain, "who had some twenty men with him.
He would not give him time even to say good by to his
children. And when my poor master said, 'If I must die, let me die by my own
hand,' even that was refused him. 'We allow nothing to traitors,' the brute
answered. They bound him hand and foot and dragged him off."
"We allow nothing to
traitors, indeed," murmured Subrius to himself. "What, I wonder, does
Statius call himself? I hope that he, anyhow, will get his deserts."
Statius, it should be said,
had been one of the most active promoters of the conspiracy.
Again the Tribune's hopes
were dashed to the ground. Still he refused to think that all was lost. A last
chance remained. The conspiracy had spread widely among his brother officers of
the Prætorians; and they, at least, he hoped, would make a struggle for their
lives. Civilians might be content to fold their arms and bare their necks to
the sword of the executioner, but soldiers would die, if die they must, with arms
in their hands. And then, if they wanted [259] a great name to catch the
popular ear, was there not Seneca? I don't think much of philosophers,"
Subrius thought to himself, "but perhaps I may be wrong. Anyhow, the men
of the world have failed us. They are as weak as water. Perhaps there may be
sterner stuff in the man of books."
Obviously there was no time
to be lost. He must hurry to the Prætorian camp at once, and urge Fænius Rufus,
who was one of the joint Prefects, and, as we know, was involved in the
conspiracy, to act.
Calling to the driver of a
car which was plying for hire, he proceeded at the utmost speed to which the
horse could be put, to the camp. Just outside the gate he met the officer of
whom he was in search.
Rufus, who was on horseback,
and was followed by an escort of ten troopers, signed to his brother officer to
halt. "Well met, Subrius!" he cried. "I am on my way to the
palace, and I want you to come with me. Give the Tribune your horse," he
went on, turning to the orderly who was riding behind him; "go back and
get a fresh mount for yourself, and come on after us."
The man dismounted and held
the horse while the Tribune jumped into the saddle.
"Not a word,"
whispered the Prefect to his companion, as they rode along; "not a word;
we must brave it out, and all may yet be well. But leave it to me.
[260] The Tribune had no
choice but to obey. His superior officer's conduct was unintelligible, even
astounding. Still he could do nothing. It would have been sheer madness for
him, a simple Tribune, to stand up in the camp and bid the Prætorians abandon
the Emperor. If such a movement was to begin at all it must begin with the
Prefect. Meanwhile, he could only obey orders and possess his soul in patience.
Rufus, anxious, it would
seem, not to give his subordinate a chance of any further speech, beckoned to
the Centurion who was in command of the escort, and kept him in conversation
till they reached the palace gates.
The two Prætorians were
ushered into the chamber where Nero had just taken his seat, and was preparing
to examine some of the prisoners who had been named by the informers. The
Emperor was evidently in a state of great agitation and alarm, and Subrius
observed that the detachment of the body-guard in attendance was exclusively
composed of Germans. He hardly knew whether the circumstance was encouraging or
not. For the present, indeed, it would make any attempt very difficult, if not
impossible, but it was an ominous thing for Nero if he had begun to find that
only barbarians could be trusted.
The Emperor signed to Rufus
to take a seat immediately on his left hand, the chair on the right being
occupied by Tigellinus. Subrius himself sat imme- [261] diately below his
superior officer, and within a few feet of the Emperor.
The prisoner under
examination at the moment was the poet Lucan. The Emperor and Tigellinus had
been questioning him for some time, but hitherto with little or no result. He
had denied all knowledge of the conspiracy. Still the keen eyes of his judges
had not failed to perceive signs of waning courage. Nero whispered to
Tigellinus, and the Minister beckoned to an attendant. The man drew aside a
curtain and revealed the rack.
"Marcus Annacus
Lucanus," said Tigellinus, using almost the same words that he had addressed
to Scævinus, "when the life of the Emperor is at stake, the law permits
and even enjoins all means of discovering the truth."
The wretched man turned
pale. Still he made an effort to brave it out. "You are more likely to
wring out falsehood than truth by such means," he said in a faint voice.
"Of that you must
leave us to judge," answered Tigellinus with a sneer.
The executioner advanced
and laid his hand on the prisoner's shoulder. He started at the touch, and grew
ghastly pale.
"Cæsar," he cried,
appealing as a last chance to the feelings of the Emperor, "Cæsar, we were
once friends, and worshipped the Muses together. Will you suffer this?"
[262] Nero only smiled. He
had long ago steeled his heart against pity. Lucan he hated with that especially
bitter hatred which wounded vanity sometimes inspires. He aspired to be a poet,
as he aspired to be an actor, a singer, a charioteer, and he could not conceal
from himself that the author of the Pharsalia
far surpassed him.
Then the unhappy man's
courage broke down. "Stop!" he cried, "I will confess. I am
guilty of conspiring against the Emperor."
"That we know,"
said Tigellinus. "What we want to hear from you is the names of your
confederates."
"Must I speak,
Cæsar?" moaned the wretched man. "Is it not enough that I have
confessed the crime myself?"
"You have confessed
nothing," said Nero. "Your guilt I knew already. And you I could
afford to despise, for you can only strike with your pen, but doubtless you
know others who know how to use their swords."
Lucan then gave two or
three names, all of them, as it happened, already known.
"Still we have learnt
nothing new from you," said Tigellinus. "If you wish to merit the
Emperor's clemency, you must tell us something that we have not heard
before."
In a voice half stifled
with shame the accused said: "My mother knew of the affair almost as soon
as I did."
[263] A
thrill of disgust went through the audience as these humiliating words were
uttered. Even to these men, hardened as they were, the son who could betray his
own mother seemed a monster.
"That is enough,"
cried the Emperor, making a sign to a Centurion; "remove him!"
A shameful scene of
baseness and cowardice followed. One after another the accused were brought
before the tribunal; one after another they failed in the hour of trial. Men of
noble birth, men who had served their country in high offices, and who had
distinguished themselves in the field, could not summon up courage enough to
endure this ordeal. Some volunteered confession, and neither force, nor even
the threat of force, was needed to make them betray their comrades. Others
stood firm at first, but failed when they were confronted with the engines of
torture. Subrius sat filled with a disgust and a shame which hardly left him
time to think of his own danger, as friend after friend, men of courage and
honour as he had always believed them to be, proved themselves to be traitors
and cowards.
As for the behaviour of
Rufus, he watched it with ever increasing astonishment. The Prefect took an
active part in the examination. Not even Tigellinus was more truculent, more
savage, more brutal. He cross-examined the prisoners,
he plied them with threats, and still by a strange
agreement in silence, his name was not mentioned by one of them.
[264] "What is his
plan?" thought Subrius to himself. "Can he hope that he will escape
altogether, that no one out of these scores of accomplices will name him, or is
he biding his time?"
"Tigellinus,"
said Nero to his Minister, after some six or seven confessions had been taken,
"do you remember that Greek freedwoman whom Proculus accused? Let her be
brought before us again. Perhaps she may have a different story to tell.
Meanwhile, while she is being fetched, we will adjourn for a brief space. A cup
of Falernian will not be ungrateful after this morning's work."
He rose from his seat, and
left the Court, leaning on the arm of Tigellinus. The Prefect of the Prætorians
followed immediately behind, and the Tribune, again, was close to his
commanding officer. Behind these again were some dozen German body-guards.
"Is this the chance
that he has been waiting for?" said Subrius to himself.
"Shall I strike?"
he whispered to the Prefect, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Rufus hesitated for a
moment. That there was an opportunity such as never might occur again, he saw;
the chances were ten to one that if Subrius were to strike, he would not strike
in vain. But then, could he hope to escape himself if the deed was done? The
German body-guards were devoted to their master, and would infallibly avenge
his death on his assassin, and, it could hardly be doubted, on himself.
[265] "Hush!" he
whispered to his subordinate. "It is not the time; we shall have a better
opportunity than this."
Subrius muttered a curse
under his breath, but the habit of obedience was strong in him, and he held his
hand.
A LAST CHANCE
[266] SUBRIUS was on duty that afternoon in the
camp, and his place in the Court, where the Prefect was still in attendance,
was filled by another Tribune. No one who saw him going, with an imperturbable
calm, through the numberless little details which had to be looked after by the
Tribune on duty, would have imagined how much he had at stake. The fact was
that he had hardened his heart to any fortune, while
he was both by temper of mind and by deliberate conviction a Stoic and a
fatalist. Still he could not help feeling what may be described rather as a
vivid curiosity than an anxiety as to what the day might bring forth. The Greek
freedwoman who was being examined that afternoon,
whatever she knew of the conspiracy, whether it was little or much, anyhow knew
his name. Would she keep the secret? It was scarcely likely. He had seen men,
who had every motive of honour and affection to keep them silent, quailing
under the threats of pain, and sacrificing everything in their desperate
clinging to life; would this weak woman, who had no honourable traditions of
birth and training to which she would be [267] bound, show herself braver and
more faithful than soldiers and nobles? Who could imagine it? And yet when he
thought of that strong, resolute face he thought it not impossible.
And he was right. He was
making his way to his quarters when he encountered the officer who had been
occupying his place in the Court during the afternoon.
"Subrius," said
his friend, "you have missed the strangest sight that ever man saw. Ah! and I wish that I had missed it too, for it was almost past
bearing. A Greek freedwoman was brought before the Court—Epicharis was her name.
It seems that she had been accused of conspiring against the Emperor some time
ago, but that nothing could be proved against her then; now that all this has
come out, she was to be examined again. One of the Secretaries read over the
confessions of the prisoners who had been before the Court in the morning, and
then Tigellinus said: 'You hear this. What have you to say?' 'Nothing,' she
answered. Well, he went on asking questions. 'Had she ever heard anything about
the affair? How could she account for all these confessions? She had declared
that Proculus had invented his story; was it likely that all these witnesses,
knights, Senators, and soldiers, had also invented theirs?' She went on
answering, 'I know nothing about it,' or was silent. Before long, Tigellinus
broke out, 'You have lost your memory, [268] woman, it
seems; well, we have charms for bringing it back.' At the same time he made a
sign to a slave that stood by and the man uncovered the instruments of torture.
I assure you that the girl—she was only a girl—did not so
much as flinch or start. Well, they put her on the rack, and the executioner
gave it a turn. I assure you it makes me almost sick when I think of it. At the
second turn the woman said, 'I have something to say.' 'Ah, madam!' cried
Tigellinus, 'I thought we should find your tongue for you. Loose her!' The men
took her off the rack, and set her in a chair; she was quite unable to stand.
'Cæsar,' she said, 'since you are resolved to force the truth from me, you
shall have it. I have conspired against your life, and had I been a man, and
had had the opportunities which others have had, I had done more; I would not
only have plotted, but would have struck. Would you know why? Because you are a murderer. You slew your wife Octavia
because she was ten thousand times too good for you. It is she whom I would
have avenged. The gods have willed it otherwise; they have assigned the task to
other hands. You may kill me as you will. I do not care to live. But do not
flatter yourself that the Furies of your mother, your brother, your wife, will
suffer you to rest. They will find some sword to reach your heart, though this
has been broken.' By Mars! Subrius, the woman looked like a Fury herself as she
said this. She had started [269] up from her chair, though how she could stand
I cannot imagine, and poured out her words as if she were inspired. The Emperor
seemed struck dumb, but Tigellinus cried, 'Gag her; cut out her tongue!' Before
they could touch her, she said again, 'Would you know my associates?'
Tigellinus made a sign that they were to leave her alone. She was so frantic,
he thought, that she might let out something almost without knowing it. 'I will
tell you; my associates are all brave soldiers, all good citizens, all who love
their country. To-morrow, Cæsar, if not to-day, these will be on my side, and
they will be too strong for you, for all your legions. Mark my words: before
five years are past, you will desire and yet be afraid to die, and will hardly
find a friend to press home the last blow!'"
"Brave woman!"
said Subrius, "and what then?"
"After that,"
replied the other, "she said nothing more. Not a single word could they
wring out of her lips, though they tortured her in a way that, as I said, made
me sick to see. At last the physician told them that unless they stopped they
would kill her. So she was carried off, to be brought back again to-morrow, I
understood."
"Great
Jupiter! how she shames us all," said Subrius to himself, when
he had parted from his brother officer. "To think of the shameful
exhibition that those freeborn men made yesterday, and then see what this woman
has done! And what of [270] myself? Would she—had she
been in my place—hold her hand? And yet I was bound to obey orders. The gods
grant I may find Rufus in a bolder mood at last!"
This bolder mood unhappily
was what not even the necessity of his desperate position could create in the
Prefect. Subrius found him still unwilling to act, clinging frantically to the
hope that his share in the conspiracy might yet pass undiscovered. In vain did
Subrius ply him with arguments and remonstrances.
"It is sheer
madness," he said, after going again and again over the familiar ground;
"nothing but madness, to hope that you will not be named by some one of
the condemned. It is a marvel that it has not been done already. But if you
think that they will all endure to see you sitting as their judge,
cross-examining, threatening, when by a word they might bring you down to stand
at their side, you are simply fooling yourself. Why should they spare
you?"
"If any one does name
me, I can deny it," said Rufus.
"Deny it!" cried
the Tribune; "what good will that do you? Nero is so panic-stricken that
to be named to him is to be condemned. And what of
Tigellinus? Don't you know that he has a protege of his own for whom he covets your place?"
"It is my only
chance," murmured the Prefect. "It is too late for anything
else."
[271] "Possibly,"
returned Subrius gloomily; "we have lost too many chances, and this is a
fault which Fortune never forgives. But it is not too late to die; that is the
only thing, I take it, that our folly has left us free to do. Let us cast lots
who shall play the executioner. We shall do it at least in a more seemly
fashion than Nero's hangsman."
At this moment there was a
tap at the door. The Prefect turned pale; any moment, he knew in his heart of
hearts, might bring with it his arrest. Subrius put his hand upon his
sword-hilt, ready to sell his life as clearly as he could.
The newcomer was another
Tribune of the Prætorians, Silvanus by name.
"Well, Silvanus, what
news?" asked Rufus.
"I will tell
you," replied the other, "and you must judge what is to be done.
Yesterday Cæsar sent for me, after he had finished his examination of the
prisoners. Tigellinus was with him, and Poppæa; Antonius Natalis was there,
with handcuffs on his hands, and a soldier on each side of him. 'Repeat,
Natalis,' said Cæsar, 'what you have told us about Seneca.' At that Natalis
said: 'I went lately to see Seneca when he was sick. Piso sent me. I was to
complain of Seneca's having always denied himself to
him of late. They were old friends; he had much to say to Seneca; it would be
greatly to their mutual profit if he were allowed an opportunity of saying it.
I took this message to Seneca,' Natalis went on. 'His answer [272] was that he
did not agree with Piso, but thought, on the contrary, that it would not be to
the interest of either of them that they should have much talk. He quite saw,
however, that he and Piso must stand and fall together.' When Natalis had
finished, Cæsar said to me, 'You hear, Silvanus, the evidence of Natalis.'
'Yes, Sire,' I said, 'I hear.' 'It shows plainly that there was an
understanding between them,' the Emperor went on. 'Is it not so?' 'Doubtless,
Sire,' I said, for one does not contradict an Emperor, you know. 'Well,' he
went on, 'go to Seneca, repeat that evidence to him,—to make sure that you have
it right, you had better put it into writing,—and ask him how he can explain
it. Of course you will take a guard with you!' Well, I went. Seneca, who had
just come back from Bai?, was at his house, between
the Anio and the Mons Sacer, and when I got there was at dinner with his wife
and two friends. I read Natalis' evidence to him. He said: 'It is quite true
that Natalis came to me from Piso with a complaint that I denied myself to him.
I said that I really was not well enough to see any but a very few friends;
indeed, the physicians prescribe absolute rest; of course, if the Emperor wants
me, I must come, but I cannot be expected to sacrifice my life for any one
else. As to what I am reported to have said about Piso and myself standing and
falling together, I don't understand it. I may have given the common message,
"If Piso is well, I [273] am well," but I never went beyond it. (Footnote: This was a customary compliment in a letter,
"Si vales ego bene valeo," and it had been wrested into language that
seemed to signify complicity in some dangerous scheme.") That is all I
have to say,' he went on, 'and if Cæsar does not know by this time that I am in
the habit of speaking the truth, nothing that I can say will persuade him.'
Well, I went back; when I reached the palace, Nero was at dinner with
Tigellinus and Poppæa. I repeated Seneca's words exactly. I had taken the
precaution, I should say, of writing them down. The Emperor said, 'Did the old
man say anything about killing himself?' 'Nothing,' I said. We heard him mutter
to himself, 'The old dotard is very slow to take a hint. What could be plainer?
You are sure,' he said, turning to me again, 'you saw no signs of anything of
the kind?' 'Nothing,' I answered; 'he was as calm and quiet as ever I saw a man
in my life.' 'Well,' said Cæsar, 'then we must speak more plainly. Go back and
tell him that he has three hours to live, and no more.' "
"What then?" said
the Prefect. "What did you do?"
"Instead of going
back, I came to you," replied Silvanus.
"And why?" asked
the Prefect.
"Do you ask me
why?" cried Silvanus. "Surely you must know. Am I to go or am I not
to go? Say the word. I am ready to obey."
[274] At
this point Subrius broke in. "Silvanus is right. He sees that this is our
last chance. Piso is dead, Lateranus is dead. Seneca is the only man left whom
we can put up with any hope against the tyrant. For Heaven's sake, away with
this frantic folly of thinking that you can escape! Speak the word, Fænius
Rufus, and I will go with Silvanus here to Seneca's house. We will take him,
whether he will or not—for he is more likely to refuse than to consent—and
bring him into the camp, and salute him as Emperor."
"No! No!" cried
the Prefect, wringing his hands in an agony of perplexity. "It is
hopeless. It must fail!"
"Anyhow,"
retorted the Tribune, "it is not so absolutely
hopeless as your plan. We have lost better chances than this; but this has, at
least, the merit of being our last."
"I cannot do it,"
said Rufus after a pause. "Carry out your orders, Silvanus; there is
nothing else to do."
"So be it, then,"
said Subrius. "you have sealed our fate and your
own. I will go with you, Silvanus. I would fain see how a philosopher can die;
it will not be long before we shall need the lesson."
THE DEATH OF A PHILOSPHER
[275] SCARCELY a word passed between the two
Tribunes as they traversed the distance, some four miles or so, that lay
between the camp and Seneca's villa. Silvanus was heartily ashamed of his
errand, and Subrius, who bitterly felt his own helplessness, could only pity
him, and would not say a word that might sound like a reproach. Under these
circumstances to be silent was the only course. Arrived at the villa, Silvanus
called a Centurion, took him apart, and gave him his instructions.
"I shall not go
in," he said to his companion. "It would be past all bearing."
"You will not hinder
my entering?" asked Subrius.
"Certainly
not, if it pleases you to go."
Silvanus gave the necessary
orders to the Centurion, and the two were ushered by a slave into the apartment
where Seneca was sitting with his wife and his friends.
The Centurion stepped
forward and saluted. "Lucius Annacus Seneca," he
said, "Cæsar, having come to the conclusion that it is not to the
interests of the State that you should live any longer, graciously, of [276]
his clemency, permits you to choose for yourself the manner of your death."
The unhappy wife of the
doomed man uttered a loud shriek, and fell back half fainting in her chair; his
two guests started up from their seats with pale and terror-stricken faces.
Seneca remained absolutely calm and unmoved.
"This," he said
with a smile, "is not the usual fee that a pupil pays to his teacher, (Footnote: It will be remembered that Seneca had been
Nero's tutor.) but it may not be the less acceptable,
for that. Sir," he went on, turning with a courteous gesture to the
Tribune, "is our friend, if I may call him so, who has just brought me
this gift, under your command?"
"The gods
forbid!" cried Subrius eagerly. "I had never come on such an errand.
Yet I knew that it was to be executed. Forgive me if I intrude
unseasonably."
"You need scarcely ask
my pardon," replied the philosopher. "Condemned men are seldom
troubled by a too great abundance of visitors and friends. How much time do you
allow me, friend?" he asked, turning to the Centurion.
The man hesitated.
"Would two hours suffice?" he asked. "I would fain return to
Cæsar before he sleeps."
"Jupiter forbid,"
said Seneca, "that I should keep Cæsar from his needful rest! That would
be ill-done of his old tutor. And surely two hours will [277] suffice to rid an
old man (Footnote: Seneca, born a few years
before the Christian Era, must have been at least
seventy at this time.) of what little life remains to him. But the time is not
long, and I must not waste it. Let me see then what has to be done. First, then, my will."
The Centurion interposed. "It
is not permitted to any one so circumstanced to change his will."
"Why so?"
"Cæsar grants validity
to the wills of those whom he suffers thus to execute justice on themselves,
but his clemency must not be abused, possibly to his own injury, or the injury
of loyal persons."
"You mean that I might
strike out a legacy that I had left to Cæsar himself, or to Tigellinus. Nay, I
was but thinking to make my friends here a little present in remembrance of
to-day. And to you, sir," he added, addressing the Centurion, "I
would gladly have offered some little token of my regard. The bringers of good
news should not miss their reward. But if it is otherwise ordered, we must
obey. After all, the best thing that I have to leave to my friends is the
picture of my life. Is it permitted to me to spend the time that remains in the
company of my wife and friends? You can easily make sure of my not
escaping."
The Centurion intimated
that there would be no objection to this, saluted, and withdrew.
"You will stay with
me, sir?" he said to Subrius; [278] "though indeed it is presumption
in a civilian to pretend to show a soldier how to die. Nay," he added, for
the Prætorian, inexpressibly touched by the cheerful composure with which the
old man met his fate, could hardly keep down his emotion, "Nay, but we
look to you, who have faced death so often, to help us to be calm."
He turned to his two
friends, who were weeping unrestrainedly. "Surely I have been the dullest
of masters if I have not taught you better than this. By all the gods! if you would not disgrace me, command yourselves better.
Philosophers forsooth! and the moment your philosophy
is wanted, it breaks down. Life is brief, and death is sure. These are the very
commonplaces of wisdom, and yet one would think that you had never heard them.
And what is there that surprises you? That an old man should die, and an old
man whom Nero hates? The only marvel is that I have been suffered to live so
long. He has murdered his brother, his mother, his wife; it was only fitting
that he should murder his tutor. All that I taught him has perished; it is time
for the teacher to follow the way of his precepts."
The philosopher then turned
to his wife Paulina. He changed his tone to one of tenderness.
"Dearest," he
said, as he clasped her in his arms, "we must part. That is a sorrow which
all husbands and wives must face; and, after all, the tyrant has not
anticipated fate by many years. I will not ask you [279] not to grieve for me;
that would be against nature; but it is also against nature to grieve without
ceasing. The years that have been given us have not, I trust, been ill-spent;
to recollect them is a solace of which no one can rob you."
"Nay," cried
Paulina, "I shall need no solace, for there shall be no parting. Nero bids
you die, but he does not forbid me to die with you."
"Well said,"
answered Seneca. "That is worthy of my own true wife. It was only right to
show you that there might yet be happiness in life for you, but if you prefer
the glory of death I must not hinder you. And yet," he added with a smile,
"of any one but you I should be inclined to be jealous. You put me into
the shade. I have no choice between living and dying. I do but prefer one death
to another; but you prefer it to life."
To open the artery in one
of the arms was reckoned the easiest and least painful way of inflicting death.
Husband and wife held out their arms together, and the former administered the
stroke. For some reason it failed of its effect. Possibly in the case of the
wife the old man's strength did not suffice to make the wound sufficiently
deep. Anyhow she survived. It was to the interest of some of those who
surrounded her that she should live. Accordingly the Centurion who was in
waiting outside was informed of what had happened, and despatched a mounted
messenger to Nero with an account of [280] what had been done and a request for
instructions. The man returned in a very short time with strict injunctions
that the wife must not be permitted to die. The wound was bound up, and she survived,
though as long as she lived the bloodless pallor of her face showed how near
she had been to death.
With Seneca himself the
process of dying was long and painful. He could not bleed to death, it seems,
for, what with the weakness of old age, and the excessive spareness of his
diet, there was but little blood in his body. To no purpose did he sever the
veins in his legs. Painful convulsions followed, but death still seemed remote.
His fortitude remained
unshaken. "If I cannot die," he said to his friends, "at least
let me make use of life. Send me my secretaries."
The secretaries came, and
he dictated to them, in a voice that was surprisingly firm and distinct, his
last thoughts about life and death. Never had his eloquence been more clear and
forcible. (Footnote: Unhappily this last
discourse has not been preserved. Tacitus says that it had been published, and
that, because presumably it was so well known, he did not venture to put it
into his own words. Literary etiquette, apparently, prevented the historian
from quoting it. It is naturally a case in which I have not the courage to
invent.)
He had just finished when a
newcomer was announced. This was the physician Ann?us
Statius, a long-tried and faithful friend, who had been Seneca's medical attendant
for many years. The philosopher's [281] chamberlain had sent for him as soon as
he was aware of the errand on which the soldiers had come.
"You are come in good
time, Statius," said Seneca. "Your art has so fortified me against
death that when I want to depart I cannot. Have you the draught ready?"
"Yes, it is
ready," replied the physician. "I brought the hemlock ready pounded,
and Stilicho has mixed it."
He clapped his hands, and a
slave brought in the cup.
"Ah!" said the
old man with a smile, as he took and drained it, "I am after all to have
the crowning honour of a philosopher's life, and die as Socrates died."
But even this was not to
be. The poison, which would have sent a fatal chill through a frame warm with
vigorous life, seemed powerless to affect one so cold and feeble.
"How is this, my
friend?" said Seneca after a while. "My time is more than past, and
our good friend the Centurion will be wanting to
finish the work himself. What say you?"
"I half feared
it," replied the physician. "There is no life in you for the poison
to lay hold of."
"What do you advise
then?"
"A hot bath might
hasten matters," replied the man of science. The hot bath was tried, but
the old man grew cheerful and even playful.
"The feast is ended,
and though some of the [282] dishes have been tasteless and ill-cooked, it has
not been ill-furnished on the whole. Now it is time for the libation. To
Jupiter!—not the 'Preserver'; that he is for those only who seek to live,—let
me rather say ' Liberator,' for he is indeed about to set me free." As he
spoke he scooped up some of the water in the hollow of his hand, and threw it
on the slaves that were in attendance. A few minutes later he spoke again.
"There must be an end
of this. Take me into the hot chamber. That will finish it. Is it not so,
Statius?" he said, looking to the physician.
"Doubtless,"
replied Statius; "but it will be a painful process."
"Well," said the
philosopher, "that is only to be expected. For what says
A few minutes afterwards he had ceased to live.
THE FATE OF SUBRIUS
[283] THE physician, whose house was in the
immediate neighbourhood, offered Subrius hospitality for the night. The
Tribune, unwilling to compromise any one by his presence, declined it.
"There are
reasons," he said, "why I should not come under your roof; don't ask
me what they are, for it is better that you should not know. Besides, it is
necessary for me to get back to
Subrius had given up all
hope for himself. Resistance and escape were equally out of the question. Nor
could he hope to do anything for his confederates. Most of them were already in
the hands of the authorities; the others would be infallibly named by one or
other of the informers. The only one whom he saw a chance of saving was Pudens.
Pudens was unknown to most of the conspirators,—a simple soldier on leave who
might, it was possible, be sheltered by his obscurity. The Tribune was inclined
to reproach himself for having involved the young man, whose
frank and engaging character had greatly attracted him, in an undertaking which
he now saw had been doomed to failure from the first.
[284] It
was just possible that the mischief might be undone. It still wanted some three
or four hours of
The Tribune accordingly
proceeded straight to the place where the young officer was still employed in
the superintendence of public works before described. Late as it was when he
arrived, Pudens was still busy. It was, in fact, the last day of his
engagement, and he was busy completing his final report and making up his
accounts, for he had latterly been intrusted with the payment of the workmen.
He was not alone, for the Christian freedman, whom for some time he had
employed as his assistant, was with him, and was helping him to wind up the
affairs of his office. Curiously enough, no tidings of the exciting events
which had been going on in
As
briefly as possible Subrius put his young friend in possession of the state of
the case.
"All is lost!" he said. "By whose fault this has come about it
does not profit to inquire. For the present the fact is enough. All but a few
of our friends are already in prison; the rest will soon be there. But there is
a chance for you. You were a stranger to most of those who were concerned in
the affair. Neither Scævinus nor Natalis, who are the principal in- [285]
formers, knew you by name. It is the greatest good luck that your engagement
here has come to an end. As it is, your going away need excite no suspicion. My
advice to you is this: Go to-morrow morning with your report and your accounts
to your chief; but mind, don't go a moment before the usual time. Keep as cool
as you can. If he says anything of what has happened, you, of course, will know
nothing about it. Afterwards bid good by to any
acquaintance that you may have. Mind, whatever you do, be
leisurely and calm. Let there be nothing like hurry, for hurry is
suspicious. After that I must leave everything to your own judgment and
ingenuity. You have, I fancy from what you told me, a certain talent for
disguising yourself. You will want it. Make your way, I should say, to the
armies in the East. The particular spot that will be safest you must judge
hereafter. The gods preserve you!"
"And you!" cried
the young man. "Will not you come with me?"
"Nay, my friend,"
replied Subrius, "I should spoil it all, destroy your chance, and not
profit myself."
"But Pomponia and
Claudia!" said Pudens, after a pause. "How can I leave them when I
might be of some help?"
"You can do
nothing," answered Subrius. "If they are to be helped it cannot be by
you. I don't even know where they are. Lateranus, as I told you, was [286]
arrested and executed. They were in his house. I did not hear of their being
taken at the same time. Anyhow it will not profit them for you to thrust your
head into the lion's mouth."
At this point the freedman
interrupted the conversation.
"I think, sir,"
he said, "that I may be of some use, both to the noble ladies, if they are
not already removed from Lateranus' house, and to my friend here, if I may be
permitted so to speak of him. As for him, I do not think that it would be
advisable for him to put the plan which you suggest into execution at once.
That he should make his way some time to the army in the East, I agree; but, I
should say, not now. Now, it is certain, all the roads, all the ports, are
watched. A little time hence this vigilance will be relaxed; then the attempt
can be made with more chance of success."
"What then do you
suggest?" asked Subrius.
"We of the
faith," answered the freedman, "have a hiding-place, where we keep
our most precious things,—our books, our sacred vessels, and, in case of need,
the persons of those whom we desire to conceal from the rage of our enemies.
More I am not at liberty to say, for I am bound to secrecy; but there is a
hope, I assure you, and I will certainly do my best to fulfil it."
"What say you,
Pudens?" said the Tribune, turning to the young man.
[287] It
will readily be believed that Pudens did not hesitate for a moment. The idea of
making his own escape, and leaving the two women to their fate, had been
extremely distasteful to him. Though he had been compelled to confess to
himself that he could give them little or no help, he still felt a desire,
perhaps an unreasonable desire, to be near them, even, if it was so to be, to
share their fate. He caught eagerly at the freedman's proposal.
"I will stay," he
said, "and take my chance here."
"Then," cried
Subrius, "if that is settled, I will go." He took an affectionate farewell
of his friend, and departed.
Some time had been occupied
in the discussion, more than would be supposed from the brief summary that has
here been given of it. It was now nearly dawn, and broad daylight before the
camp was reached.
Here, somewhat, perhaps, to
his surprise, the Tribune found everything quiet. The sentinel at the gate
saluted as usual. His soldier servant, who had been waiting for him, showed him
all the customary respect, and roused him, after two or three hours of slumber,
with the message that the Prefect wished to have his attendance at the
Emperor's Court.
He obeyed the summons,
impressed with the profound conviction that that day was to see the end of the
desperate game which the Prefect had been playing.
[288] The
first intelligence that he received on reaching the Court was that Epicharis
was beyond the reach of her enemies. While on her way to the Court, where she
was to be again subjected to the torture, she had contrived to put an end to
her life.
"Thank the gods for
that!" muttered the Tribune to himself. "She, at all events, is at
peace. And now for our turn!"
The turn came soon enough.
The Prefect had been bearing himself all the morning, as prisoner after
prisoner was being examined, with more than his usual confidence. At last Scævinus,
who was again being questioned, when taunted with keeping back much of what he
knew, turned upon his persecutor.
"No one knows more of
these things," he said with a meaning smile, "than yourself,
Fænius Rufus. You are very jealous for your Emperor; don't you think that you
can show your gratitude to him by making a confession of your own?"
One would think that the
man must have foreseen that, sooner or later, one of the accused would thus
attack him. Yet he seemed as utterly unprepared for it as if such a contingency
had never occurred to him. He might have flatly denied it; he might have passed
over it with a pretence of silent contempt. He did
neither. He hesitated, stammered, corrected and contradicted himself, in so
manifest a condition of panic that his very appearance was equivalent to a
confession.
[289] The
example once set, Scævinus did not want for followers. Prisoner after prisoner
stood up, and gave details so numerous, so minute, so consistent, as to put the
fact of the Prefect's complicity beyond a doubt.
"Seize him,"
cried Nero. "To think that this villain has been sitting
unsuspected by my side for days!"
A soldier, Cassius by name,
a man of gigantic frame and vast strength, stepped forward, seized and bound
him.
"And then," cried
one of the prisoners, "Cæsar, there is another conspirator among your
guards. I charge Subrius Flavius, Tribune of the Prætorians, with
treason."
Nero started up in terror
from his chair. His emotion was not mere terror. He knew the Tribune, knew him
as a man of singular courage, and as he had always believed one who had always
entertained a strong affection for himself.
"Say, Subrius, I
implore you," he cried, "say that this is not true. I cannot believe
that you, too, are among the traitors."
"Is it likely,
Cæsar," replied the Tribune, "that I should league myself with
cowards and traitors such as these?"
The defence may have been
serious; more probably it was ironical. Anyhow it was soon thrown aside. The
witnesses heaped up evidence on evidence, and [290]
the Tribune, standing calmly and contemptuously silent, tacitly admitted its
truth.
"Tell me,
Subrius," said the Emperor, and there was even a touch of pathos in his
voice, "tell me why you have forgotten your oath. You swore to be faithful
to me. How is it, brave soldier as you are, that you
have leagued yourself with traitors?"
"Listen, Cæsar,"
cried the Tribune, "and hear the truth if for once only in your life. I
conspired against you because I hated you. You had not a more faithful soldier
while you deserved to be loved. But when you murdered your mother and your
wife, when you became a charioteer, an actor, and an incendiary, then I began
to hate you."
These bold words struck the
tyrant like a blow. He grew pale and shook with terror, and could not have been
more utterly panic-stricken had the speaker been standing over him with a
dagger.
"Away with him!"
he cried, when he had recovered his voice; and he was immediately pinioned and
dragged away.
His daring had at least one
result that a brave man would have desired. Possibly he had calculated upon it.
He was not kept in suspense about his fate. A fellow-tribune was ordered to
lead him off to instant execution. A pit was dug in the field where he was to
suffer. Subrius looked on with unmoved countenance while the work was being
done. When the Centurion in charge saluted and reported it [291] as finished
Subrius looked at it with a critical eye.
"Too narrow, too
shallow!" he said. "You can't even dig a grave according to regulations."
"Hold out your head,
and don't flinch," said the Tribune, who had been charged to administer
the fatal blow with his own hand.
"Flinch
you as little when you strike," said Subrius, eying with scorn his pale
face and trembling hand.
And indeed it needed a
second blow before the head was severed from the body.
"Ah, the villain felt
that he was dying!" said Nero, when the Tribune reported and even made a
boast of what had happened.
It would be tedious to tell
in detail the story of how Nero, his rage redoubled by his fear, pursued the
conspirators with an unrelenting severity. Scarcely one escaped, and, strangely
enough, some whom by some capricious indulgence he either acquitted or
pardoned, put an end to their own lives, unable it would seem, to endure
existence under such a master.
A PLACE
[292] THE freedman Linus had lost no time in
making his way to the
He found, however, to his
great relief, that Pom- [293] ponia and Claudia had not been molested. The
soldiers sent to arrest Lateranus had received no mandate about the two women,
and had accordingly left them alone. One faithful slave had remained, and had
been doing his best to minister to their wants. For these, indeed, there still
remained in the house a sufficient supply, though much had been wasted by the
pillagers. But the outlook before the two women was gloomy in the extreme. They
had no friend or kinsman to whom they could look for help. They could not even
hope to remain long forgotten. At present the thoughts of all were engrossed by
the examination and discovery of the conspirators. But it could hardly be long
before Poppæa would bethink herself of her victims. All the Christian fortitude
of Pomponia was wanted to keep up her own courage and to administer comfort to
her young companion.
It may be imagined then
that the coming of the freedman was welcome in the extreme. He had not been
able to reach the house in time to do anything that day. Even after nightfall,
as long as the streets were full, it would not be safe to make a move. It was
necessary for the party to wait with as much patience as they could exercise,
till the quietest period of the twenty-four hours, the time between
The place in which Linus
hoped to find a refuge for his patroness and her young companion was a [294]
spot which was then known only to a few, but which has since attained a
world-wide fame, the Catacombs of Rome. The greater part of the vast
subterranean region now known by that name did not then exist. But a beginning
of the excavations had been made. Already there were chambers which could be
used for temporary dwellings, others in which worship could be celebrated, and
others, again, in which the remains of the dead could find a final
resting-place.
The entrance to the
excavations was by a sand-pit which had been long since disused. Happily for
the secrecy which it was so essential to maintain, the place had an evil
reputation. More than one murder had been committed there in former times, (Footnote: See, in particular, the story told by Cicero
in the Oration "Pro Cluentio," of the murder of a young man who had
come up to Rome on a visit from one of the provincial towns.) and every one,
therefore, was careful to avoid it.
Linus succeeded in removing
the two ladies to their new shelter without attracting any attention. About
thirty persons were already assembled there. The bishop or chief presbyter of
A few hours of rest were
exceedingly grateful; but both insisted on attending the service which was held
shortly after sunrise in a little chamber set apart for purposes of worship.
It was the first day of the
week, and the minister celebrated, according to custom, the rite of the Holy
Eucharist. It was the first time that Claudia was admitted to partake of the
Elements. It had been arranged some months before, immediately, in fact, after
her arrival at
To one who watched the rite
from without—for he was not privileged to enter the sacred precincts—Claudia
seemed to wear a look of more than human sanctity. This observer was Pudens. He
had carried out the instructions of Subrius to the letter, had parted with his
chief on the friendliest terms, and, [296] after concealing himself during the
day, had managed, but not without meeting with one or two dangerous adventures,
to reach the spot indicated by the freedman. Here the password, communicated to
him by Linus, had secured his admission from the guardians of the entrance. He
had arrived in time to witness the solemn scene just described, and to listen
to the address, partly of thanksgiving, for the deliverance vouchsafed in the
past, partly of exhortation to courage and faithfulness in the future, which the
minister addressed to his little congregation at the close of the holy rite.
The days which followed,
were full, for the young man, of curiously mingled emotions.
It was a delight to be near
the woman whom he loved, and yet how remote she seemed from him! The follies of
his youth, even the scheme in which he had been lately engaged, with its
self-seeking and the pettiness of its motives and aims, as he now looked upon
them, seemed to separate her hopelessly from him. The girl herself, on the few
occasions which he had of seeing her, was friendly; she was more than friendly,
she was profoundly grateful. But her looks, her demeanour, everything about her
showed plainly enough that he was not in her thoughts in the way in which he
wished to be.
Happily for him this
painful ordeal—for such he felt it to be—did not last very long. About a week
after his arrival there came tidings from the upper [297] world, if so it may
be called, which materially altered the prospects of the refugees. The
intelligence was brought by a slave from the palace, one of the sympathizers
whose presence at headquarters was, as we have already seen, often useful to
the Christian community.
The main fact which the
newcomer had to communicate to his friends was the death of Poppæa. Every one
felt that the worst enemy of the Church was removed.
"When did she
die?" asked one of the Elders.
"Yesterday," said
the messenger.
"And how?"
"Cæsar struck her a
violent blow with his foot. He had been driving his chariot, and came into the
room where she was sitting, in his charioteer's dress. She was sick and
suffering. Something, too, had happened to cross her temper. She taunted him.
'A pretty dress for Cæsar!' she said. 'I shall dress as I please,' he answered.
'At least you should do such things well,' she went on. That touched him to the
quick, you may be sure. To be a charioteer does not trouble him, but to be a
bad charioteer—that is intolerable. He fell into a furious rage, and kicked
her. Three hours afterwards she died. The physicians could do nothing for her.
I believe that she never spoke again. Indeed, she was not conscious. Cæsar,
when his rage was over, was fairly mad with grief. He could not endure to [298]
be present at the Conclamatio, (Footnote: The Conclamatio was a ceremony
at which the name of the deceased was cried aloud three times. It is still
observed at the burial of Spanish kings.) which was
made last night."
"Poor creature!"
said one of the audience. "May God show her more
mercy than she showed to others!"
"She is to be embalmed
and buried in the Mausoleum of Augustus, but there is to be a great burning all
the same. Orders have been given for an image of the deceased to be made, and
this to be burnt on the pyre. And Cæsar is to pronounce her funeral oration
himself."
"Will this affect
us?" asked the Elder who had first spoken.
"Greatly,"
replied the slave. "I have with me a copy of an edict which will be
published in the course of a few days."
The edict was produced and
read.
"Seeing that the
people called Christians have already suffered sufficiently for their misdeeds,
Cæsar decrees that they shall henceforth be permitted to live in peace,
provided that they do not again offend against the safety of the Roman
people."
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As soon as the edict was
posted up in the city—and this was done on the day of the funeral oration—the
refugees returned to their homes. Pudens took the same opportunity of making
his escape from
[299] His original
intention was, as has been said, to return to the army of Corbulo; but this
plan, fortunately for him, was not carried out.
The causes that prevented
it, however, very nearly cost him his life. He arrived at
One day, about the middle
of September, he was taking a walk in the garden, when he was joined by his
host, a Roman knight, it may be said in passing, who managed some extensive
affairs connected with the public revenue of the
"I must be thinking of
going on," said Pudens, after the usual inquiries about health had been
duly answered.
"That is exactly what
I wanted to talk to you [300] about," returned his host. "Of course
you know that the longer you stay with me as my guest the better pleased I
shall be. But you have your own plans, and naturally want to carry them on. Now
let me be frank, and tell you exactly what I know, and what I think you ought
to do. It would not surprise you to hear that you have been delirious?"
Pudens nodded assent. There
were blank spaces in his memory, and other spaces all
but blank, but haunted with a dim sense of disturbance and trouble. Without any
remembrance of actual pain he could easily believe that he had been in the
condition which his host described.
"No, indeed,"
said our hero. "It is no surprise to me; I must have given you a world of
trouble."
"Not a word of that;
but hark!" and the speaker dropped his voice to a whisper, "you said
things which made me take care that no one should watch you but myself and my
wife."
Pudens could not help
starting.
"Yes!" went on
the other, "high matters of State which would touch a man's life. Now I do
not ask for your confidence, but if there is anything in which I can help you,
I am at your service."
Pudens saw at once that
absolute frankness was his best policy, and related the story of the
conspiracy.
"That is exactly what
I supposed," returned his host, "and you thought of taking up again
your service with Corbulo."
[301] "That was my
idea," said Pudens.
"And
not a bad idea either, in some cases. There are camps where you would be safe, even
though you were known to have had a hand in the conspiracy, supposing, I mean
of course, the general-in-command wished it to be so. You would be safe with
Verginius on the
"It is a
disappointment," said Pudens. "I had counted upon Corbulo. But what
do you suggest?"
"That is exactly what
I have been thinking of. It would be a risk to go westward again; though once
in
The suggestion was carried
out, and with success. No one thought of looking for a conspirator in hiding
among the troops of King Antiochus, and so no one found him. The events of the
years that followed may be told in a few words. Two years after his enlistment
Pudens heard of the fate of Corbulo, a fate which singularly justified his
friend's conception of his character. Not long after he had the relief of
hearing that Nero was dead. In the year of civil strife that followed this
event, the year which saw three Emperors fall in rapid succession, he was,
happily for himself, better employed than in supporting one pretender or another.
Vespasian, appointed to command the legions of
MEETING AGAIN
[303]
He had reached
A groan of disappointment
went up from the little crowd.
"You have done us all
an ill turn, sir," said a young man with a remarkably clever face and
brilliant eyes, shabbily dressed, but evidently a gentleman. "But
doubtless your business with the Emperor was much more important than all of
ours put together. You are a soldier, I see, and if I guess rightly, from the
East. Is your news a secret, may I ask?"
"Not at all,"
answered Pudens. "All
"Ah!" said the
other, "there have been rumours of the kind about for the last two or
three days. And so it has actually happened. No wonder that the Emperor could
think of nothing else."
"I hope, sir,"
said our hero, "that the business which I unwittingly interrupted or
postponed was not very pressing?"
His new acquaintance, whom
I may introduce to [305] my readers by his full name of M. Valerius Martialis,
smiled. "Certainly not, it was a trifle. I have a little poem in my
pocket, which I should be glad if you would do me the favour of hearing at your
leisure, and I wanted to get an order for some more of the same kind from the
Emperor. To tell you the truth, he does not care much for poets and their
verses, and his ideas of remuneration are of the most moderate kind. A very
frugal person, sir, is Cæsar. Perhaps it is as well, for another Nero would
certainly have made the Empire hopelessly bankrupt; but still there's a limit,
and when it comes to paying ten sesterces a line for really
tolerable verses,—if I may say so much of my own work,—one may say that the
virtue is a little in excess."
"I hope,"
remarked Pudens, "that private patrons are more liberal, and that there
are those who buy."
"As
for private patrons," returned the poet, "there are good and bad, and
as I said of my own epigrams, a few good and more bad. As for the public that buy, very
little of their money comes to us. The publishers send us in large bills, and
what with copying, price of parchment, ink, vermilion, pumice-stone, polishing,
and I know not what else, there is very little left. And then, if a book does
sell, there are rascals who copy it, and give us nothing at all. But I am
running on, and tiring you with things that don't interest you. Will you dine
with me to-day? [306] Mind, there will be simple poet's fare—a few oysters, a
roast kid, and a jar of Alban wine. If you want flowers or perfume or
Falernian, you must even bring them yourself."
Pudens, who had very few
friends in
"Remember, then,"
said the poet, "at the eleventh hour. (Footnote:
About
"You must see the
great beauty about whom all the golden youth of
Pudens, of course,
recognized Claudia in this description. He did not care to betray his
acquaintance with her, nor indeed to encourage his
host in talking about her. Martial's way of speaking about women,
was, to be candid, not very edifying, and [307] though he had nothing but good
to say about this northern beauty, Pudens did not care to hear her name upon
his lips.
The years
which the young soldier had spent between his departure from the capital and
his return to it had been a time in which he had learnt and thought much. In particular, the knowledge of
Christianity which he had begun to acquire under the instruction of Linus had
been greatly deepened and broadened. The new faith had been commended to him by
the purity, the courage, the self-devotion of its professors. He now began to
realize what a power it already was, to what vast proportions it was likely to
grow. In the East, while he was living in
And with this influence in
the young man's life there had always mingled his recollection of Claudia. She
embodied to him the noblest ideal of womanhood, an ideal, too, inseparably
linked with the faith of which he had been learning so much. For these years he
had heard nothing of her, and of course did not escape the fancies and fears
with which lovers are wont to torment themselves. She
might be dead, or, a thought even yet harder to endure, she might be lost to
him.
It was therefore with no
common emotion that he had now heard from his new acquaintance that she was in
[309] As
early as possible the next morning he presented himself at Pomponia's house.
His reception was all that he could have desired. The elder lady had a grateful
recollection of his kindness and zeal, and Claudia had no more forgotten him
than he had forgotten her. The two women listened with an untiring interest to
the story of adventure which the young soldier had to tell. When the great
siege in which he had been taking part came to be discussed, the conversation
inevitably turned on the subject of Christianity. Pudens was led on to speak of
the thoughts which had been occupying his mind, and Pomponia particularly
inquired whether he had made a regular profession of the faith which had so
greatly impressed him. Pudens answered that he had not. Circumstances had
hindered him from submitting himself to a regular course of instruction, but
his mind had been made up; he had only been waiting for an opportunity of
giving expression to convictions which he had long since formed.
"You will come with us
to-morrow," said Pomponia to her visitor, when, after some hours of
conversation, he rose to take his leave. "We have a duty to perform which
it will interest you, I am sure, to witness, if you cannot actually take a part
in it. We leave the house early, before daybreak, indeed, if that is not too
soon for you."
Pudens did not fail to
present himself at the appointed hour. A carriage was waiting at the gate of
[310] Pomponia's mansion, and the ladies were already
seated in it. He joined them, and became so engrossed in the conversation that
followed that he did not notice the direction in which they proceeded. It was
with no little surprise and emotion that when the carriage stopped he found
himself at the entrance to the Catacombs.
"We commemorate
to-day," said Pomponia, "those who had the privilege five years ago
of witnessing their faith and love by their deaths. You will watch the rite
from without; another year, I hope, you will be one of us."
Thus did Pudens, standing
with the catechumens, of whom he was reckoned to be virtually one, witness
again the solemn act of worship on which he had looked, under very different
circumstances, five years before. This ended, came the commemoration itself.
The presiding Elder read the list of saints and martyrs who had sealed their
testimony with their blood. Foremost on the list came
the two Apostles, Peter and Paul, who had suffered two years before, the first
the death of a slave, the second by the headsman's axe on the
There is little more for me
to tell. Pudens lost no time in putting himself under instruction. The Elder
[311] who undertook to examine and teach him found him so well prepared that
there was no need to delay the rite. Pudens was received into the Church at the
festival of Christmas, and a week afterwards became the husband of Claudia.
Many old friends were
gathered at the wedding, among them Phlegon, still vigorous in spite of his
fourscore years, and Linus, who, as Pudens did not fail to remember, had been
the first to show him what Christian belief and practice really were. Nor did
he forget his debt to another, without whose courage and devotion he had
scarcely lived to see that happiest hour of his life, the Tribune Subrius. As
he knelt with his bride in silent prayer after receiving the minister's final
blessing, he put up a fervent supplication that some rays of the light which
had fallen upon him might reach, he knew not where or how, the brave,
true-hearted man to whom he owed life and happiness.
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A few days after their marriage the young couple held a reception of their friends and acquaintances. Among them was the poet Martial, who brought with him not the least acceptable of the wedding gifts which they had received, an epigram written in praise of the bride. It ran thus:—
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"Our
Claudia see, true Roman, though she springs From a long line
of Italia's self
might claim so fair a face, And |
[312] The author, though he
spoke of his offering as a gift, was not displeased when the bridegroom pressed
into his hand a roll of ten gold pieces. He whispered to a friend, "There
is a real lover of the Muses! He would have made an admirable Emperor, at least
from my point of view; but he is certainly happier as he is."