THE LIFE AND TIMES OF NERO

Book Four

THE FIRE OF ROME

I

IT commenced with the arrival of Peter, when Claudius was still on the throne.

Peter had arrived in the month of January, from Antioch. He was a man without education or birth, poor and common in appearance. He landed at Ostia; then he came up the River on a fisherman’s barge. The boat reached the Gardens of Servilius, where the Anio joined the Tiber, and he saw Rome extending before his eyes. On the right bank the building-yards, the immense docks, the warehouses of the Emporium, and above them the temples and monuments crowning the Aventine. On the left, the gardens of Caesar’s Palace, beyond which rose the fortress of the Janiculum. The barge went as far as the Velabrum, where the fish-market was, and there the mysterious traveller lost himself in the crowd.

Peter went to live in the Jewish district, between the Janiculum and the Vatican. He did not like the Jews, nor did they like him, for the Jewish colony of Rome, like all the Jewish colonies the world over, had an excellent information service, and Peter’s journey had been preceded by a detailed account of the simple man’s activities in Judaea, and his attachment to the hated and false prophet Jesus of Nazareth.

Moreover, Peter had come to Rome to preach, and he was thus opposing the popularity of Simon Magus. Peter had met the great impostor in Samaria, when Simon, surprised at the rapid progress of the new faith and attracted by the miracles performed by another of the Master’s disciples, Philip, had offered Peter a large sum of money to teach him the science of healing by the laying on of hands. Peter had repulsed him in horror, and Simon, hurt in his pride, yet feeling that the new faith would make much progress, had decided to forestall the true disciples, and had come to Rome to preach it on the most attractive basis, the working of miracles.

But Simon was no genuine healer, nor could he work miracles, and his intrigues were the main cause of the measures ordered by Emperor Claudius against the followers of the new faith. For the Jews and the new proselytes quarrelled wildly upon the great point whether the man Jesus, who was crucified, had been the true Messiah that the Jewish nation expected. At times the quarrel became as wild as a seditious disturbance, and the Magistrates, for whom both Jews and Christians were a great nuisance, urged Claudius to sign a decree expelling the agitators from Rome.

Peter was a simple man, but he had an extraordinary capacity for making contacts and friendships. Soon he came to know the wealthy Easterners who lived in the Esquiline and Viminal districts and in their houses he made the acquaintance of Senator Pudens and his wife Claudia, both of whom he soon converted to the new faith. Spiritually, the time was most suitable to the new faith, even among the educated classes, for the animism that was the essence of the Christian preaching appealed as an attractive novelty to the Latin minds, which had lost faith in their materialistic Gods. Pudens offered Peter hospitality in his house, and Peter accepted it, in the first place to get away from the orthodox Jews who were his bitter enemies, and secondly because he fully realized that his real work lay among the Roman people.

Meetings and services took place in the house of Senator Pudens. Peter sat in the chair of Pudens himself, debating and teaching, and administering baptism and communion. That chair became an object of veneration to his followers, and it is now in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, enclosed in the stupendous bronze cathedra that Bernini made for it, almost suspended in mid-air, above the Altar of the Confession.

Next to Peter stood his three coadjutors, Linus, Cletus and Clemens, to whom he left the care of his disciples and church when he was away from Rome. Round them stood the newly created deacons and deaconesses, the latter covered with veils and the former enveloped in the wide and colourful cloaks of the Dalmats—their mantles were for ever named dalmatics. The congregation was composed of men from all classes and lands, workmen in simple tunics stood next to patricians and senators with togas bordered with purple, slaves and knights, Gauls and Egyptians, Armenians and Numidians, men of all lan­guages and customs.

The man who presided over those meetings had nothing that might attract the attention, neither nobility of manner nor intellectual genius. Peter was a plain and simple man, almost a rustic; but he said that he had followed the Master and lived with Him and because he was so simple a man, other men believed him. And he was a man of miracles, too. They brought to him people who were ill and ailing and he cured them by the simple touch of his hands. They ranged them along the road where he would pass, and even his shadow was enough to heal them. He was always dressed in a simple tunic and a kind of blouse or penula, and over his shoulders he wore a pallium or mantle. His crisp, iron-grey hair made a halo around his bald patch. His face had an expression of simplicity and goodness, but his eyes, often filled with tears, seemed pools enclosing a secret grief. When they enquired of his sorrow, and asked him if he was not delighted to see his disciples growing to such large numbers, he replied that nothing would ever make him forget that he had disowned the Master. He was most anxious to select among his disciples those who would preach and convert others; and while they spread his faith, they worked at all trades, or tilled the fields, and all said that they wanted to serve and not to be served.

When the new faith was properly constituted in Rome —Peter called it “ his family”—he departed and visited all Italy and the Western Provinces and then returned to the East. In Rome his coadjutors continued his work. They preached that patricians and slaves were all brothers in the eyes of God. And they announced the resurrection of the dead and the immortality of man. They said that work was holy and pain good for the soul. They instructed the humble and the slaves in truths that were more profound than even Plato himself had considered. They disclaimed any merit for such truths, and said that they came to them from the Master, who was the Son of God and had been crucified by the Jews and yet had been resurrected on the third day to return to His rightful place in heaven. They said that there were no empires and no Roman power, for the whole earth was but the Kingdom of God.

Deacons and Deaconesses were appointed to instruct the neophytes and assist the needy. It was a spiritual legion, stubbornly fighting its way amidst pagan life. They visited and helped anybody who was in need. In choosing those who made the visits they considered the condition, sex and age of the person to be visited so as to make the visit sweeter and more helpful. The deaconesses visited the young girls and women and took charge of abandoned children.

Since the early days of the Republic, the people of Rome had been divided into tribes and each tribe into ten Curiae. The Curiae had special buildings for prayers and religious ceremonies. The residents of a district were expected to take part in those ceremonies and to honour the Gods of their Curiae. The priests in charge of a pagan parish were called Curions. Next to this special cult of the district there were temples of the great Gods, protectors of Rome, to which all the people went on days of celebrations. Peter retained this organization, and in each district he created meeting-places for divine services, while they served also as dining-halls for the poor. This was not a novelty in a strict sense, for each Roman Curia used to hold solemn dinners, which were an ancient tradition instituted by Romulus and Remus, and the Christians called them Agapi, followed by the Eucharistia.

To escape persecution the growing followers of Peter went underground. They sought the catacombs and the grottoes of the Vatican Hill, which was considered a desecrated place, for people said that, under Claudius, a great snake was found in a cavern and when it was killed and opened, a whole child was found in its belly. The entry to the main cavern was obscured by a huge oak and the people said that the tree was older than Rome herself. An inscription, upon a plaque of lead, in Etruscan charac­ters, said that the tree had been an object of veneration since time immemorial. Under that tree priests and soothsayers used to deliver oracles. Their chants had indeed given to the deserted hill the name of Vatican—vatis cantus. The apostles of the new faith made it their favourite abode, and invented a new catchword—they said that under the new faith the name of the City would soon be changed—Roma, Amor.

The Romans found the Christian preaching offensive to their pride and hurtful to their form of life, and yet the preachers gained the confidence of the lower classes, by raising their lives to the level of their own preaching, never asking a price for their lessons as street-corner philosophers used to do, but sharing their last copper with the poor. Those who attended the secret meetings for curiosity found nothing reprehensible in them.

The strangest thing, in the materialistic world of Rome, was that many proselytes sold their houses and lands and distributed the proceeds among the needy, and' declared that there was joy in giving their earthly goods away, for they were thereby acquiring more beautiful ones. They undertook to live a blameless life, spoke of miracles, exalted their faith and said they felt very happy. It was a new philosophy of life.

The Roman world was a great ordered Empire, yet Rome was in agony. To the confusion of races and peoples, a Roman pattern of statesmanship had been applied and notwithstanding the laxity in morals, the main concepts of life survived, the State, the family, the Gods. Rome was heavy with the centuries that had been filled by wars, conquests, civil strife, the chasing out of her Kings and the advent of a Republican rule which in course of time had turned back to the more spectacular attraction of a mock-monarchy called Caesarism, the obsession of a patriotic ideal and a religious creed that had submitted the individual to the ideology of the State. Rome was full of the errors of an imperialism which had become too big to be contained, infected by the vices of Greece and of the East, weakened by the abandon and corruption of an aristocracy that was now too old and debased, with the gradual disappearance of ancient virtues, the absurdity and slow deterioration of a religion which was a Pantheon of impossible Gods and empty formulae and gestures.

It was at this point that the pagan world realized that the new faith was attacking its very existence, because it considered the Roman world as the Kingdom of Satan. And at this point Rome, so lenient and broadminded and tolerant, turned for once to persecution, because the new religion preached by a small band of obscure Eastern zealots was overthrowing the whole Roman conception of life.

II

In the year 61 another man arrived from the East. His name was Paul. Burrus was then still alive and Praefect of the Praetorians.

The man Paul came to Rome in chains, by order of Nero Caesar. He had left the port of Caesarea in Palestine, with a Centurion set to guard him during the journey, and was shipwrecked. Paul and his guard spent three months of winter at Malta, in the local jail. At last, they took sail again. A ship from Alexandria called at Malta, and the Centurion embarked with his prisoner. They made a call at Syracuse, where they spent three days, then at Reggio in Calabria, where they waited one whole day for the wind to rise, and at last they proceeded towards the Bay of Pozzuoli near Naples. It was a leisurely way of travelling, and the Centurion allowed his charge to mix with the crowds who were soon intrigued by the strange apostle who lost no time in telling them of his prowess and renown. Indeed, they delayed Paul in Pozzuoli for seven days. The Centurion closed an eye, half amused and half doubting, not knowing what really to make of his peculiar charge. When at long last they left Naples for Rome, Paul was in chains again. But on each side of him marched now two disciples, Aristarchus and Luke, who had begged the Centurion’s permission to share the fate of their master.

In Rome, Peter had arranged a great welcome to Paul. The Christians were to meet him at the Forum of Appius, some twenty leagues from the City. Paul entered Rome on the sixth day of July, during the yearly celebrations in honour of Apollo. All the people were garlanded with laurel. On arriving in the City, the Centurion handed over his prisoner to the Praefect of the Praetorium, for Paul was a prisoner of State. And Paul was a personal prisoner of the Emperor because he had called Nero Caesar his greatest enemy.

The Centurion gave a report of the good conduct and courage of the prisoner during the voyage; and Paul was spared the indignity of a prison, and permitted to reside in a little house, but chained to his guard. Each day the guard was changed, and in this way there was no chance of the prisoner persuading the guard to allow him to escape. The guard was supposed to protect Paul against the Jews, the declared enemies of the new Christian religion.

Paul was given residence in one of the busiest districts of Rome, between the Forum and the Fields-of.Mars, and there he lived two years, quite close to the spot which is now the Corso. During those two years he preached to all who had patience to listen to the strange prophet.

To supplement his needs, he was permitted to weave ropes and canvas for huts. Now and then he was allowed a walk through the City, always chained to his guard. He spent many hours writing, and one long epistle he addressed to his friend Philemon, begging his pardon for the misdeeds of an escaped slave named Onesimus, who had taken shelter in Rome after robbing his master. The poor devil had lived for a while on the proceeds of his robbery. Then, reduced to destitution, he had addressed himself to Paul, who converted him and made him a dignitary of the new faith, and ordered him to present himself to his master and put himself at his mercy.

Some time after the arrival of Paul, the Emperor felt curious to learn something of this extraordinary prisoner. The Praetor thought he could best describe this new prophet by reading to Nero some passages of a letter Paul had written to his followers in Corinth. The letter had been intercepted, but later the Police had considered it better to let it go on its way. One passage said: “Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one. Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I have been in the deep; in journey often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by my own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils of the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; in weariness and painfulness, in watching often, in hunger and thirst, in fasting often, in cold and nakedess; in Damascus the Governor under Aretas the King kept the City of the Damascenes with a garrison, desirous to apprehend me, and through a window in a basket was I let down by the wall, and escaped his hands! ”

Said Nero: “Is the man in earnest, or is he a boaster?”

Yet, the Emperor was told, the greatest danger was Peter.

The Emperor was duly acquainted with the activities of Peter and the spreading of the new faith.

“Is it true that they meet in the catacombs?” The Praetor explained that the Christians buried their dead in a common ground along the Via Appia, a few miles from the Capuan Gate, and as they were too poor to build tombs above the ground, they built them under the ground, which was soft and strong; they had honey­combed the earth, and held their religious services there. It was difficult to say how many those Christians were, a few thousand certainly, mostly slaves and artisans. The most peculiar point, the Emperor was told, was that there was no figuration of their God. They adored an invisible God. And this constituted a danger, for the great quarrel of the Jews was indeed that Rome put the image of the Emperor on the coins and called it Divine. At times the Christians went by symbols—a fish, for instance.

Another point to be watched, the Praetor further explained, was that the new faith was an association of men and women who were asking nothing whatever from Nero Caesar. An association of men who seemed to find happiness in an abstract thought—in the idea of goodness and love. Peter and Paul asked the Stoic to be humble, the lazy people of Rome to work. They preached a brotherly love amongst all men because, they said, all men were equal in the eyes of God.

The Emperor found it all very interesting, but his Councillors were full of forebodings. Cicero, some said, used to reproach himself for feeling regretful over the slave he had lost; who denies that a slave can be as good as his master? Let the slave prove his worth and gain his freedom. Were there not many freedmen among the Emperor’s councillors and ministers ? The great problem was that the people of Rome had grown lazy. People outside Rome lived an ordinary and healthy life. They worked, they were peasants or craftsmen, they still thought of life as one should. But the people in Rome did not produce anything any more. They now merely passed on the goods which were made elsewhere by foreign labour. Rome was too powerful and too wealthy; and the people had actually fallen into the error of considering greatness and wealth as their own personal property. The State was merely a bailiff and an impresario charged with the duty of keeping the people well fed and amused. Perhaps the fault was that Rome was too full of foreigners. Without exaggeration, said Nero’s Councillors, when one wanted to hear people speak Latin one must go into the country and meet the peasants. Everything was Greek in Rome; even the wives, said the beaux esprits, misconducted themselves a la grecque! The streets of Rome were full of foreigners. Business men and intriguers of all sorts seemed to have congregated to exploit the vices of the great and the corruption of the sovereign people—soothsayers from Thessalia who sold philtres, Magi from Chaldea who foretold the future, circus acrobats, psyllae who charmed snakes, dancers from Antioch and Cadix, beautiful courtesans from Asia Minor, the motley crowd of Greeks who knew so well how to get into family secrets and thrive on polite blackmail; the versatile Greek who knew to perfection the gentle art Of managing the lady of the house and her husband as well as the children and even be willing to court grand­mother! The Greeks, so persuasive, so charming, so indispensable. No household could be without them. They were butlers, tutors, secretaries and lovers, all at once or by turn; imposing their fashions, their tastes, their opinions, their habits which, alas, were not as lofty as their philosophies. At sunset, by the temple of Castor, the slave-dealers got ready their stalls for the following market-day. All the slaves were foreigners. They were displayed upon platforms with feet bare and white­washed, and tablets hanging from their necks describing the marvellous virtues or vices of each. When a dealer had a lot of no particular interest he described it “ suitable as eunuchs.” And in Rome, nobody worked, nobody wanted to work, only amusement, panem et circenses.

Quite so, quite so, said the Councillors and Ministers of Nero Caesar, but who was going to change it ?

III

The Emperor was at Tivoli, because the waters were good for his voice. At the Pavilion the tables had been laid in the garden, under a pleasant canopy of striped linen and rambling roses and honeysuckle. Nearby there was a large aviary shaped like a temple, full of rare singing birds. Marble basins were filled with live fish of all kinds, which the guests could choose and hand to the cooks. No sooner had the party taken seats on the dining couches than one elegant wit called for hemlock. The Emperor looked up, “Has any Centurion already conveyed to you an order to depart from this world?” “O no,” the gentleman answered; “I want hemlock because it’s an antidote to wine, and so I will drink myself to death!”

On the tables course followed course, fish, poultry and game, a roast pig stuffed with live quails that flew away when the siniscalch cut open its belly. A troupe of chefs solemnly entered the pavilion, preceded by a troupe of musicians playing flutes. The chefs carried a whole boar upon a huge silver salver. The boar was stuffed with pheasants, the pheasants were stuffed with quails and the quails were filled with ortolans; a marvel of marvels. Near each table a cook watched over the hot-plates, to keep the seasoned dishes warm. In a crystal bowl a huge fish was cooked under the eyes of the guests.

As the dinner proceeded, the gluttons retired to the vomitorium and then returned to gorge themselves again. Others simply let the attendants wash their hands and faces with perfumed waters, and passed to a second tent where the tables were even more sumptuous. Golden lamps high above burned perfumed oils. The guests were crowned afresh with tea-roses, the air was cooled by feather-fans moved by slaves, the dishes were lighter and more savoury. The attendants no longer poured falemum into the cups or massicum cooled with snow. They served sherbets made with snow mixed with delicious syrups and light wines. In the middle of the hall dancers from Antioch performed a ballet to the tunes of zithers and flutes. They passed around the tables to allow the guests to admire their lovely figures. In a comer half a dozen players were gambling for high stakes. The onlookers shrieked' with laughter when a throw of the dice had deprived one player of his villa at Capua. Another player proffered to gamble his own life. How brilliant! Would he really pay?

A great storm had gathered in the sky. The thunder rolled on the left. The Emperor paled at the bad omen. But to show his disdain for omens and rumours, the following day he dared to bathe in the waters of the Marcia fountain. His fashionable physician from Marseilles was against the stove-bath, and recommended to his patients cold baths, even in winter. But the very cold waters of the Marcia did not suit the Emperor, who was taken ill. Was the omen at the dinner-party true ?

During his illness the Court met regularly around the Emperor’s bed. They discoursed upon Death, the future of the Republic, on who would—one day—succeed to the Throne. The latter subject was always an interesting one. If no heir was born, the Caesar House, so painfully continued through all kinds of adoptions, would inevitably be extinguished with Nero. Who would the Emperor designate as his successor? The Emperor leaned on his elbow and laughed. “Why do you want me to mention a name? I would only gain one friend and lose a hundred!”

But happily there was no need to name a successor, for soon afterwards the Empress Poppaea gave birth to a child. It was the year 63. It was not the much-desired heir, as the baby was a girl, but Nero was beside himself with joy. The baby was born at Anzio, at the villa on the rocky promontory that Nero had made fashionable, because it was his own birthplace. Many nobles had followed the Emperor’s lead and made Anzio a delightful winter resort. The famous Apollo by Praxiteles was there, upon the main terrace of the Emperor’s villa.

Nero called the baby Claudia and gave her the title of Augusta, and said he would follow the practice of the Pharaohs and make his baby daughter heir to the Throne. The Senate ordered a public thanksgiving, two golden statues for the Goddess Fortune, and voted a temple to Fecundity and annual games in honour of the Domitia and Claudia Families, to be celebrated at Anzio.

Nero was immeasurably happy. He said it was an event that put him at peace with the Gods.

But on the day that the entire Senate came to felicitate the Emperor, Nero desired that the presence of a certain member of the opposition should not cloud his happiness. Senator Thrasea was requested to withdraw.

Why did Nero show such peevishness on a day of national jubilation? He had, quite true, an account to settle with Senator Thrasea over the affair of Praetor Antistius; but the animadversion had a deeper cause. In the first place, Thrasea had married, under Claudius, the daughter of Cecina Peto and of the famous Arria, a woman who possessed the courage of her mother who, when her husband was compromised in the revolt of the Legions in Illiria and was brought to Rome in chains, had followed him into prison, and when there was no longer any chance to save him, she tendered him the dagger with which she had already stabbed herself, saying “Take it, Peto, it does not hurt 1 ” When friends warned Thraseas that he must beware of Nero, prompted by his wife he replied, “Nero can put me to death, but he cannot destroy me.” The Emperor, Thrasea thought, was blind to the situation in Rome. Rome was full of passions, and passions generate discontent. Many people were waiting for a leader who would deliver them from what they called tyranny, for it is typical of some men to call tyrannical every government to which they find themselves in opposition. And the discontented politicians of Rome looked upon Thrasea as a leader of their secret party. There was Cornutus, a distinguished gentleman of no importance, the undistinguished poet Caesius Bassanus, two more poets, Persius and Lucan, united more by their love of letters than by their mode of life; and several others. Persius had a gentle temperament; he was very-handsome and as chaste as a virgin, and he loved his mother and sisters with an exemplary love. Cornutus, his master, had introduced him to Lucan, who was Seneca’s nephew. They gave public readings of their poems, a fashion which was much favoured by the Emperor. Lucan had introduced Persius to Seneca, but the young man had found too great a contrast between Seneca’s writings and his private life, and considered that the old man’s virtue was merely a pose.

In the second place, Thrasea made a great show of his being a Stoic. To his friends he spoke openly of his conception of life that stood poles asunder from the Emperor’s. “ Those who love the pleasures of life and do not hold Death in disdain, cannot walk along the steep path of freedom. In the contemplation of the cold peaks of Truth there is a sublime and virile pleasure incomparably more satisfying than any voluptuousness.”

To this the Court circles replied that the Greeks had invented Stoicism but were sensible enough to practise it very little. In truth, it was said at Court with much con­tempt, Stoicism as it was practised in Rome had nothing to do with the doctrine of Zeno. It was a vague pantheism made up to suit one’s political opinions. One was tired of listening to the usual cant about the fierce austerity of Cato the Elder. Cato, after all, was a martyr to pride. He had ceased to be a man of his times, to become a myth. But was the great Cato—somebody asked with sarcasm—was he such a paragon of virtue? More than once he was picked up drunk in the streets. He was a usurer, a cynic who approved of young men frequenting the brothels. He kept his slaves underfed, inciting them to hate one another. He libelled Socrates and denounced Scipio. And as a widower, he did not disdain having a young female slave coming to his bed. As for his great-grandson, Cato the Younger had despaired of his own country, and loved the empty name of Freedom more than that of Rome. When Rome fell under a Dictatorship, he considered it unworthy of him, and repudiated his country like a son abandons an infirm and debauched parent. The result was that by declaring before his suicide that a man must choose between servitude and death, Cato fortified Caesar by this insane exaggeration of personal freedom. Yes, it would be some time before the busybodies of the “ancient freedom” could raise their heads.

IV

The Emperor’s joy was shortlived. His daughter died when she was but a few weeks old. Poppaea spoke of the evil-eye. The Christians were mentioned again before the Emperor.

The loss of his child threw Nero into the darkest grief. He said he felt demented. Tigellinus suggested that he should seek some relief in amusements. Nero uttered that there was nothing but to let the days go by. The Gods were forsaking him.

One night he said, “There remains nothing now but for the world to hear my singing!” Rome, he said, did not understand the poetry that was in his heart. He would go to Naples, first, in the ancient Parthenope, the city of songs, where at night one could still hear the Sirens singing. Then he would go to Greece. Yes, he would sing at Olympia: “That ancient theatre shall at last have the glory of hearing an Emperor sing.” The Greeks will love his voice—it was such a long time since Apollo had deserted them! Now Apollo was walking the earth again in the person of Nero Caesar, and the Earth will be charmed. The Emperor will lead the choirs at Delos, and the Agathyrses, the Dropes, the Cretans shall dance their solemn dances around him.

He spoke of visiting Egypt and of playing at Alexandria. The Orient, he said, fascinated him. The com of Egypt fed the people of Rome. Its mysterious religion attracted the minds of the savants. Alexandria still was the centre of the world. Her port, her light-house—one of the seven wonders of the world—the unique library, Alexander’s tomb, the philosophical school, the floods of the Nile of which no one knew the sources, Egypt’s history and monuments, everything was seducing Nero’s imagination. More than anything else, the memory of Ptolomeus Auletes attracted him, the King who was, like him, an artist. And the story of Mark Antony and his picturesque love for Cleopatra ... “I will leave Italy,” Nero said to his friends, “ I want to build a new Capital of the Empire in the East. My new City will be the greatest on earth. The East alone can give the measure of my dream!” It was the first idea, almost the prophecy of what was to happen three centuries later—the transfer of the Capital of the Empire from Rome to the East. The poetical attraction of the Orient, more artistic, more enlightened, as counter­poised to the stiff Roman traditionalism, with the indifference of the people for Art.

Now, said Nero, he must prepare the people for his absence, and by an Edict he announced his intended departure for Alexandria. He climbed the Capitol to take leave of Jupiter, thence he descended into the Forum to make his devotions at the altar of Vesta. In that mysterious temple were preserved the most sacred things, the pledges of the perpetuity of the Empire; things so sacred that not even the First Magistrates dared to look at them. One day Nero had felt overwrought, and an impulse made him penetrate those mysteries. But no one learnt what he saw in the temple of Vesta. In Rome it was murmured that the real reason of this sacrilege was a mad desire for the Vestal Rubria, and that he had taken her by violence.

But the day that he went to the temple of Vesta to ask the Goddess to protect his journey, he was seized with a strange fear. When he rose to leave the temple, a corner of his toga was somehow caught. Nero felt as if an invisible hand was keeping him by force, and trembling in every limb, and believing that he was seeing an apparition—the terrible Ghost of his nightmares—he fainted upon the floor.

After this, the idea of the voyage to Egypt was abandoned. A rumour was put around that the Emperor had seen the grief of the people at the thought of being separated from him, and his love of Rome was greater in his heart than any other love. Two Centurions were sent to Egypt to try to reach the sources of the Nile. The Emperor went only to Naples.

Naples was a strange mixture of Roman and Greek— crowded with Greeks from Alexandria, whose chief interest was to sell their corn to the Emperor at a good price. The Emperor sang to them with such enthusiasm that, notwithstanding a mild earthquake which occurred during the performance, he went on through the grand’ aria without interruption. The walls of the theatre seemed to rise up from the ground and quiver. There were screams of terror, but the crowd was held back from panic by the sight of the green-robed Emperor who continued to pluck at his harp-strings. To the excitable Greeks Nero was almost a Hero. Besides, no one was hurt. Nero declared that it was a sign of Apollo’s approval.

It was also a good opportunity to test the claque on a big scale. The Legion of the Augustals had been increased to fifteen hundred officers and men. It was now militarily divided into cohorts. The Captain of each cohort received a salary of forty thousand sesterces and the rank and file were paid accordingly. An elegant uniform had been designed for the Augustals. They wore their hair long and floating in true artists’ style, and a ring on the middle finger of their left hands. They were now properly trained not only to applaud, but to express amusement, appreciation and enthusiasm: each sentiment had its suitable range—the murmur, the exclamation and the castanettes.

After Naples, Nero went on to Beneventum. One of his favourites, Vatinius, gave in his honour a great fete. Vatinius was a gross buffoon, lewd of speech, whom Nero had met during his nocturnal escapades in Rome. Now he had become an influential personage. This Vatinius hated the Senate. It was a bugbear with him. One day he told the Emperor: “I hate you, O Divine Caesar!” “Why, pray?” “Because you are a Senator.” Nero laughed at the joke: “Vatinius is a step in my descent towards popular taste. My first admiration was for Seneca. Then I passed on to Tigellinus, now to Vatinius. The next step will be a monkey.”

In Benevento the Emperor made ready to leave for Greece; but at the last minute he hesitated, terrified by the fear of a fiasco before a Greek audience. He decided to return to Rome to train further his voice.

To celebrate his return, he gave the people fantastic feasts, in the Forum and on the Capitol. It was a whole year of continuous festival. All Rome was submerged in a furious Bacchanal. Then, the Neronian Games were announced. Everyone connected with the Circus, the keepers of the beasts, the athletes who filled the training gymnasia, the mimes, the clowns, the comedians, the dancers, the singers, all those who lived and thrived around the public games, gave vent to their enthusiasm. Those theatrical people constituted a vast multitude for whom nothing else counted but Nero and his prodigious talent. In the Public Baths, under the porticoes, in the taverns, in the sports clubs, in the basilicae, in the markets, in the Forum, people talked of nothing else but Nero. There was a true Caesar, an Emperor who entirely lived for the people!

The day the Games commenced, Nero went to preside over them. He was received with tremendous applause. But after greeting him, a hundred thousand spectators rose as one man, and begged the Emperor to let them hear his celestial voice. Nero answered that he would sing at night in the Palace gardens. The crowd was not satisfied, and called for a song at once. A song in the people’s own ground, the Circus—Caesar must bow to the demand of the sovereign people. Nero showed some reluctance but the Praetorians on duty at the Circus joined in the public request. It was exactly what Nero was waiting for. As it was of the highest importance to please the Praetorian Guards, he would make them share the responsibility of his actions. He announced that he would compete for the Circus prizes. Solemnly his name was added to the list.

When his turn came, Nero mounted the stage. When he had previously appeared in a theatre, Burrus and Seneca had assisted him, to give greater solemnity to the unprecedented event. This time Foenius and Tigellinus appeared on the Circus stage with the Emperor. They carried his harp. The Military Tribunes and the Emperor’s intimate Court pressed around him.

Nero sang first a dramatic aria, then he recited some poems, and lastly acted a tragic part. The applause went to his head, and he felt he must surpass himself and astonish the people. A kind of fatality urged him to play the parts of Atreus and of Oedipus and Orestes. The public were both amazed and fascinated. It was a unique experience to see the Emperor play the parts of the characters whose tragedies and crimes were so similar to those of the man acting them on the stage. Each gesture and each word suggested a confession. It was no longer a dramatic performance, it was a tragic reality.

But the populace was thrilled. The novelty, the strangeness of the spectacle, Nero’s popularity, all excited the crowd beyond measure. At the end there was delirious applause. As an actor Nero had triumphed. And he felt that from that moment he had attained the pinnacle of popularity.

It was true. Nero, the adored Prince, the applauded actor, poet and songster, was the sensation of the day. He had truly touched the very depth of the people’s heart. When he returned to the Palace he gave vent to his feelings, “Perhaps,” he said, “I personify the last expression of Paganism. And I know how to keep Rome attentive and charmed.”

V

Resigning himself to the opposition of the diehards, Nero now turned all his attention to preserving his popularity.

He put on shows, distributed food, granted new favours to the troops. And again and again he appeared on the stage. To his critics he replied: “ There is a subtle wisdom in my conduct—so long as the great actor is applauded, the Emperor is safe.”

He had no longer any serious thought but that of his “professional” standing. Nothing flattered him more than to be treated as a distinguished artist. Some astrologers dared to say that one day Fortune would deprive him of the Empire. He replied with the words that have become immortal, “An artist can live anywhere.”

He gave infinite attention to his artistry on the stage. The mask, which, according to custom, he must wear on the stage, was now the exact reproduction of his own face, but in the mask of the Goddess or Heroine worn by the actor who was playing with him, he still wanted to see the features of Poppaea.

During the whole of this year the Emperor lived, so to speak, on the stage. He had his food served to him at the theatre, at the gymnasium, in the Forum, anywhere in view of the delighted populace. One day when he was having his meal at the Palace, which overlooked the Murcia Valley, he heard the clamour of the multitude impatient over the delay in commencing the Games. At once Nero rose from his couch and, without waiting for the purple cloth that was thrown into the arena to give the signal to start, he ordered his napkin to be thrown from the window to the crowd that was looking up at the Palace. The crowd were so delighted at this sally that they applauded him frantically. That night a chronicler recorded the incident for posterity.

One day Petronius entered the Emperor’s private apartment and found him lying on a bed on his back, with a sheet of lead on his chest. The Emperor was in the midst of his tricks for the preservation and improvement of his voice. Indeed, a few minutes later, a masseur approached, and lifting the sheet of lead, began to rub his Imperial patient with both hands, following an upward movement towards Nero’s throat, at each stroke raising his hands and shaking the fingers as if to drop the impurities. The massage lasted some ten minutes, where­upon Nero rose from the bed, took from the hands of an attendant a goblet, and began to gargle and spit into a silver bowl. “It helps the vocal chords immensely,” he said to his friend. “At night I have a clyster administered. The barber of that Cypriot singer Diodorus gave the tip to my head-valet. It gives greater power to the lungs.”

Then they passed into the study, and the Emperor showed a letter to Petronius, “Marcus Ostorius is offering me one million sesterces for my services to sing at his dinner-party next week. Of course I will give the fee to charity, but it is most flattering to me as an artist.”

Nero had too much taste not to realize that poetical and musical compositions were impossible in the vast and tumultuous atmosphere of the Circus. They required silence and concentration, a closed hall where tempered lights could better dispose the audience to a lofty performance. He therefore changed the time of the theatrical shows from midday to the evening. He invented real theatre-shows. Some criticized him loudly. It was too great a break from tradition. It was immoral to go to a theatre at night-time, it would incite people to further debauchery. But there were no scandals, in fact, people found the new shows rather tame.

The pantomimes, which the Emperor had at one time banned because of their scurrility, returned now to the City, to the infinite delight of the people. Nero hit upon a brilliant idea. He turned them into a mixture of comedy and singing and he wrote several himself. Thus was born the eternal musical-comedy and the operetta. Apella the Jew was the first popular operetta to be tried in the Emperor’s private theatre. Those shows were for private audiences only, and the beautiful little theatre seated one thousand spectators. Another novelty was that the curtain on the stage was no longer lowered but raised from the stage at the end of each act, so that the last things to be seen were the actors’ faces and not their feet. One thing, however, annoyed the Emperor immensely—the great Jewish actor Demetrius Libenus, who had amassed a fortune, would not consent to play on the Sabbath.

The mania for acting continued unabated. First thing in the morning, Tigellinus brought in a great batch of letters from admirers begging the favour of hearing the Emperor’s heavenly voice. The Emperor ordered with much delight to have the fan-mail answered individually, and informed the writers that he would gratify those who desired it in the Gardens. One day a group of Guards sent a message that they themselves with a crowd of friends would be happy to hear the Emperor sing, although there were no games that day. “Assemble them in the Gardens and distribute wine and refreshments,” ordered the Emperor; “I will sing to them presently.”

But Nero’s favourite pieces were still the tragedies based on the Greek plays: Canace in Labour, Orestes, Oedipus, Hercules Mad. A great favourite with the populace was Canace in Labour, but Nero never saw the joke. For Ganace was the daughter of an Etrurian King, whose incestuous intercourse with her brother had been discovered in consequence of the cries of the infant of whom she was delivered, and she killed herself. The joke was that when Nero performed the piece for the first time, somebody in the audience asked what he was doing, and a wag replied: “He is labouring in childbirth.”

VI

To emulate and please his Master, Tigellinus gave a feast even more prodigal than the Circus shows. In the centre of the Ninth District, which comprised the Pantheon and the Theatre of Pompey, there was the Pond of Agrippa, fed by the overflow of several aqueducts. It was a beautiful little lake, surrounded by gardens, temples and sacred groves.

Over this lake Tigellinus built a vast floating platform, supported by a thousand barrels chained together. Upon the platform were erected pavilions and porticoes covered with gaily-coloured awnings. On this floating platform took place a banquet of which the world had seen no equal. The servants who were chosen to wait upon the Emperor could be recognized by their long and perfumed hair, their tight ballet-tunics, the golden bracelets adorning their arms and legs. They could also be recognized by their effeminate impudence.

Among arches of flowers, lying upon an ivory couch, in a triclinium of purple, surrounded by his Court, the Emperor banqueted from vessels of crystal and gold. The most illustrious families attended the feast. With chains covered with flowers, there were exhibited elephants, tigers, and lions that Tigellinus had brought from Africa, bearsf rom the Hyperborean mountains, wolves of Scythia, colossal and monstrous turtles. From the shore the populace watched the show.

It began at sunset with erotic dances and pantomimes. When darkness fell, the floating platform was brilliantly lit. Voluptuous songs rose in the air; choirs, hidden in the groves, answered one another. When the dinner ended, small boats, their sides encrusted with glittering metals, pulled slowly to the platform, and the guests left their couches. The boatmen were naked. They had been chosen among the most handsome Orientals who hawked in Rome, painted like courtesans. Along the shore, cubicles similar to the low brothels of the Suburra had been built, lit by torches, and in them there were beautiful women, ready to give themselves to anyone. Many of them belonged to illustrious families.

But the Emperor could not be satisfied with this ordinary pleasure. For him Tigellinus had staged something extraordinary. He suggested to Nero to celebrate his nuptials with the mime Pythagora and act as the bride. A mock marriage was performed. The Emperor was seen by all standing near the statuesque Greek. Upon Nero’s head was placed the white veil of a bride, the Augurs took the omens, the servants put up the nuptial bed with purple sheets, and walked in front of the newly married.

All Rome witnessed the sacrilegious embrace. And for once the crowd did not applaud.

The following day the Emperor left for Anzio, travel­ling along the River. As usual, on the banks of the Tiber, there were faked hostelries where ladies, dressed as cham­bermaids, pressed the guests to stay. But this time Nero had no desire to stop. He realized that the “marriage” with the mime Pythagora was a mistake.

VII

Rome was too big and too old. It was called the Capital of the World, but all who had seen the world knew that notwithstanding her size and the many wonderful buildings and monuments, Rome was far from having the grandeur of some of the cities across the seas. Rome had nothing of the orderly vastness of Alexandria, nor the solemnity of Carthage, or the elegance of Athens.

Rome had grown uncontrollably vast, and she was now beyond any planning control. Firstly she had grown, like the human body, in size and proportion, and when she could no longer expand longitudinally, she had grown vertically. She had now reached a population that no one exactly knew, except that it could be counted in millions—and there was a certain vanity in the voice of any ostler or barber when he could boast of the “ millions of Rome,” but it was neither easy nor pleasant to live and even less to move about in Rome. The public buildings, some of which were very impressive, were hidden and suffocated by the congestion of endless rows of apartment­houses and private dwellings. The streets were no more than lanes, narrow and tortuous, which obstructed the traffic and made any idea of public transport out of the question.

Time after time Bills were mooted in the Senate for a drastic modernization of the City, but nothing had ever come of it. There was always a stubborn opposition that spoke of the sacrilege of destroying the traditions of Rome; a place could not be pulled down without offending the deepest spirit of the Roman people (admitting, of course, that such noble sentiment existed); some absurd wall could not be touched lest it should prove to be the original wall built by Romulus; and so on and so forth. At the bottom of it all there were the vested inter­ests of the patrician classes, who had leased their ground to the speculators who built the rickety and ramshackle buildings of seven and eight floors divided into hundreds of apartments, and they knew that they would lose heavily on their investments should any great town-planning be attempted. The result was that no one knew any more where the Urbs Roma or Rome proper ended and the Ager Romanus began. The rural territory had become part of the City and it was utterly idle to persist in the anachronism that only the people of the Urbs were Roman in the true sense. Should any census be taken, it would have been only too clear that almost four-fifths of the population of Rome was composed of foreigners, mostly Greeks and Levantines, with a good sprinkle of Egyptians.

Half a century before, Augustus had done no more than take up again the original plan of his adoptive father Julius Caesar, when in the year 8 BC he had, for reasons of expediency, identified the City with the fourteen districts into which he divided the ancient and the new, thirteen districts on the left bank of the Tiber, and the fourteenth upon the right bank, calling it Regio Transtiberina.

But the streets in each district, the one hundred and sixty streets or vid recorded by the Censors, were un­worthy of a great metropolis. The ancient domus or houses had given place to many thousands of insulae which, with the exception of the private residences of the great, were immense blocks of apartments for the middle and working classes. Even the meaning of domus had changed, for to say ‘a house’ meant now merely one of the dwellings into which a block was divided, and which were often no more than squalid hovels of one or two rooms, where whole families lived in cramped and insanitary con­ditions. Only the very expensive apartments offered the number of rooms that were to be found in the traditional domus, the porter lodge or atrium, the triclinium or dining­room, the tablinum or lounge, the sleeping-rooms and, if the apartment was on the ground floor, the peristillium or pleasant courtyard surrounded by a little portico. The rooms of an apartment were purely and simply rooms that the tenant could use as he thought fit and practical. Some of these blocks bf flats were immense. There were some that almost looked like skyscrapers. Gone for ever were the restrictions of Augustus, that any building to be used as a private dwelling should not exceed an elevation of sixty feet so as to provide a reasonable measure of safety for the inhabitants. Martial, a few years later, wrote in one of his amusing ditties that he had to climb to the third floor, but that was nothing compared with what another of his fellow-tenants had to do—to climb to the seventh: it was indeed very often the case that when the top floor was being devoured by the flames of a fire, the tenants of the flats on the third floor still slept soundly and undis­turbed. The lower floor in the blocks situated in the meaner streets was divided into shops and storerooms, and the shops were anything but an embellishment of the streets. The great majority were nothing better than warehouses, or the workshops of craftsmen. And upon a kind of ledge running around the four walls, reached by a short flight of stairs, there lived the family of the shopkeeper, in what unhygienic discomfort may well be imagined.

Nor were the conditions of the tenants of the apartments proper much better, for there was no water installation, and all water for domestic purposes had to be brought up from the public fountains. Where no fountain existed because of lack of aqueducts, as it was in the district on the right bank of the River, water had to be drawn from the local wells.

Nor were there any lavatories, and although the Cloaca Maxima, built several centuries before that time, was kept in such an admirable condition and was so vast that Agrippa was able to traverse it from end to end in a boat, there was no system of sewers and drains to collect the waste from each house. The Cloaca Maxima, reaching from the Forum at the foot of the Aventine as far as the River near the bridge of the Four Heads, and its affluents, the smaller sewers, collected the garbage and waste from the ground floors and public lavatories directly built upon them; but there was no direct collection from the private houses. Only the rich could obviate this horrible inconvenience by having lavatories built in their houses and cleansed by the water that reached the house from the main supplies of the aqueducts, and when the residence was too far away from a main sewer, the waste from the house went into an underground ditch, which was cleared periodically by a dealer in manure who had bought the right of clearance.

But the poorer classes and the tenants of the upper floors had no alternative but to go outside the house, and if they could afford the small charge they would enter one of the public lavatories which were run by the conductores foricarum, who contracted them from the Excise. A horrible and absurd situation, for those public conveniences were public in the widest sense, like the latrines of an army camp. One went there and met friends, shamelessly chatting of this and that, and cadging invitations to dinner. To visit one of these conveniences was to be amused by the people’s behaviour, no less than by the number of superfluous refinements provided. Around a circle or a rectangle designed with a certain elegance, a stream of clear water ran in small ducts before which there were as many as twenty seats, and the open seats rested upon brackets of stone or marble sculptured like dolphins, and often, above them, there were little niches with statues of Heroes or Gods or a small altar dedicated to Fortune, perhaps because that Goddess was supposed to bring also good health. But the poorest and the meanest citizens did not even go to a public lavatory, but used the jars purposely left by the dyers who had bought from the Government the right to place such vessels outside their establishments to collect the urine necessary for their in­dustry, or one would run from the apartment with pot in hand and go to empty it into a vat standing at the bottom of the stairs. Or, worse still, one went to a near garbage heap, and many streets were infested by such a malodorous pond for the deposit of excrements. The Histories mention that Cato the Elder had ordered them to be covered up and done away with, but they were still extant in Nero’s times, and were often used by the prosti­tutes to get rid of an unwanted child. To this picture could be added the danger, that threatened passers-by after nightfall, of receiving upon their heads the contents of a pot emptied from a window by a careless lodger.

Crowds congested the streets in day-time, succeeded at nightfall by a congestion of carts and animals. For all goods and victuals were carried into the City by night, by an ancient order of Caesar who quite rightly realized that in such narrow streets, crowded with pedestrians and sedan-chairs, it was impossible to have a flow of lorries and carts bringing in merchandise and goods. So that from dawn until sunset no cart was allowed to circulate within the City, and those who had not finished unloading before sunrise were obliged to park in a proper place until sunset. But this very proper order had the disadvantage of turning the night into a bedlam, for throughout the night the streets resounded with the creaking of wheels and the stamping of hooves on the slippery stones, and the shouts and swearing of their vociferous drivers. It was, in fact, impossible in Rome to spend a quiet night. And in the day-time one might be surrounded by a flock of sheep escorted by a placid and unhurried shepherd, when it was not a funeral procession complete with band of flute-players and women mourners wailing at so much an hour.

Rome was indeed a city of great contrasts, from the quiet districts where the new-rich had built their elegant residences and laid out their vast gardens, to the noisy and crowded popular districts of the markets and buildings for the poorer classes. Along the main streets one saw white-robed Arabs, Gauls in strange coats and trousers, Jews wearing the white tunic without ornaments that set them apart; Greeks and Spaniards, slaves from Africa whose dark faces shone out against the scarlet-and-gold liveries with which their masters adorned them. Strange tongues could be heard, while in the elaborate litters passed the noble and the rich, old aristocrats and wealthy freedmen, lying on their cushions, some perusing books or papers, others conversing with overpainted ladies. The Forum itself, the most Roman of all places and the very heart of the City, was no longer the severe and solemn place of former times. Early morning, as soon as the sun gave a golden glow to the beautiful statues, the vast square began to fill with people. Not far from the great sundial, the soap-box orators took up their stations and idlers began to appear in plenty, people who did nothing but lounge about the Forum till night fell. Then came the brokers, the commission-agents, the bankers, the money-lenders, to open their offices and banks. In front of the statue of the She-Wolf, symbol of Rome, an Arab sold sulphur- matches. The air was filled with the noises and infinite smells of a cosmopolitan crowd, the odour of ripe fruit and edibles came from the nearby market, and the whiffs of perfume booths. Only the argiletum was comparatively quiet, the square filled with rows of book-stalls piled up with the latest publications, some in rolls, with the title neatly written on the outside or hanging from a tag, some made up in book-form, in the fashion set some years before by the Empress Livia when she published her letters to Augustus. But even there a noisy crowd took its stand later on in the day—the poetasters who could find no publishers and pestered the passer-by or the well-known customer and read aloud to him their latest compositions, glad of a few coins or an invitation to supper.

The fact was that too few people did any work in Rome. Tens of thousands lived idly. Nobody knew how they lived. On patronage certainly, kept and fed by their wealthy patrons, or by the Emperor. Goods were manufactured in provincial factories with cheap labour and marketed in Rome at the lowest price. The wealth of the Empire kept prices low in Rome, and the City had become an immense bee-hive of idlers and speculators. A huge city waiting for the catastrophe that would sweep her away.

VIII

The Emperor was at his villa at Anzio, when a courier was announced with a most urgent message. The courier rushed in and almost dropped at the Emperor’s feet, and uttered wildly:

“ Rome is on fire.”

Someone nonchalantly remarked, “Another fire! Well, can’t the firemen put it out?” But the courier waved one hand despairingly:

“ The whole City is burning.”

No one spoke. Nero turned his eyes in the direction of Rome, although it was impossible to see beyond the hills of Nemi and Monte Cavo. And the tranquil lapping of the tide against the marble wall of the terrace seemed to make more dramatic the news he had heard.

The Court was inclined to treat it lightly. Surely it was only another of the fires that were so frequent in the over-populated districts of the City. It proved, they said, once again how necessary it was to rebuild that part of the City on more rational lines. Those houses were all built in large blocks and of poor material. The firemen’s usual rule was to try to limit a fire to an “island,” and then let it burn out.

But with the passing of each hour new messengers, mounted on small Numidian horses that galloped like gazelles, brought fresh details of the fire. The flames, they said, had reached the shops that surrounded the Circus, between the Palatine and the Coelius, shops full of oil and clothes...

By day fall an official report stated that the magnitude of the fire was unprecedented. And a violent wind was fanning it. The Circus was like a huge cauldron. From it the flames had already reached the gardens of the adjoining hills.

The Emperor paced the terrace. The sky over the dis­tant City, in the declining light of the sunset, appeared red, and the smoke billowed in great clouds. Other messengers arrived. The Gods, they said, had ordered this destruction. Entire districts were being destroyed and hundreds, thousands of people had already perished in the flames. The people were in panic-stricken flight, shouting and wailing like madmen, imprisoned in walls of flame. The old part of the City was entirely gone.

Nero asked, “Is it an accident or a crime?” All the messengers could say was that an accident could not have started eight different fires in eight different districts, all at the same time.

The Emperor ordered his horse.

He travelled all night, with Tigellinus, his secretary Epaphroditus, and a small escort of Guards. The night was unusually calm and starry. At Ariccia, Tigellinus suggested that the Emperor should rest awhile; but Nero was a good horseman and merely took some food from a platter held by an ostler. They changed horses and rode on. At dawn they reached the Alban Hills. Whatever hope Nero had that the fire might be limited to a few districts was wiped away by the sea of smoky mist that appeared before his eyes from the summit of the hills. The sight of that yellowish haze was terrifying. Albano was crowded with people in terrified flight. All enquiries elicited the reply that the fire had started chi the right bank of the River, perhaps in the Suburra; it had mysteriously spread simultaneously along the Esquiline and the higher districts.

Long before the Appian Road, flanked by the tombs of the ancient families, the Campagna was swarming with a crowd beyond control. But when the Emperor reached the Capuan Gate strange words caught his ears: “Do not worry! The fire was started by orders from above... Perhaps it is a new sort of game ...” Nero pulled the hood of his cloak down over his face, and entered the City without a word.

The Palace was almost deserted. Most of the staff had taken flight with the other fugitives. There was no sign however of violence or intrusion. Diomedes, the Master of the Household, greeted the Emperor with his usual welcome and backed to open the curtains of the first audience-room. Without delay the Emperor endeavoured to take stock of the situation.

All he could ascertain at a first hurried conference was that the fire had started in that part of the great Circus that adjoined the districts of Mount Coelius and the Pala­tine. The shops and taverns, full of inflammable goods, had supplied ample fuel and the sudden wind had fanned the fire into monstrous tongues of devouring flames.

For many weeks no rain had fallen in Rome. The air about the Seven Hills was sultry, dry, and parched. In the streets and valleys it was close and foetid. The heavy heat oppressed the people and when the fire had started the streets were unusually empty. Some had reported that near the Circus Maximus dark figures were seen moving among the shops and the wooden barracks, leaving behind a trail of flames. Was it true or merely a figment of imagination?

The Emperor was told on all sides that Rome was facing complete and utter destruction. The immense circumference of the Circus, which occupied the Murcia Valley, was rapidly being surrounded by the fire. The flames had devoured the shops, the warehouses, the stables, the considerable material and props that served for the Games. Carried by the wind over the Palatine, the fire had lapped the large walls and the great Babylonian steps on the eastern flanks of the hill. But then the flames had swept to the left, along the newly built road towards the Forum, and to the right, along the Triumphal Road and the Coelius district. There the fire had quickly enveloped the crowded Suburra and rising again over the hills, had reached the Esquiline district.

It was the 13th of July of the year 64—four hundred and fifty years after Rome was invaded by the Gauls, and the anniversary of the day on which the Gauls had burned the City.

The whole night, and each succeeding night, the Emperor toured the ravaged districts, made himself known, announced that help and victuals would be brought into the City at once, shelters would be erected for the homeless and Rome would be rebuilt in a very short time.

But the people ignored him. The name of Nero roused no cheers and everyone was too much concerned in seeking some lost relative or in running away pushing a cart laden with the few chattels that could be salvaged.

More surprising still was the inability of the firemen and salvage squads to stem the flames. No sooner was a safety cordon thrown around a block of houses than mys­teriously the flames rose beyond it. Voices said that torches were being thrown into the houses, deliberately. By whom?

Several times the Emperor risked his life in those narrow, winding lanes, his face blackened, his hair singed, his tunic shrivelled. A wealthy freedman, not recogniz­ing him, promised him gold in plenty as a reward for helping his wife and children out of a burning house. Nero answered: “I am Caesar, the guardian of my people and I only desire their love as my reward.” Hour after hour, by day and by night he walked through the streets, exercising authority, giving orders or planning measures for the safety of the Capitol and the Forum. He went about on foot, often without escort. He gathered together officers and young patricians, to each allotting his particular task, threatening death to anyone who failed Rome in that hour. But the people were too distracted to recognize the Emperor. Near the ruins of a temple a man suddenly came upon Nero: “Are you Caesar?” “Yes,” the Emperor answered, “I am Nero Caesar.” “Then you shall die by my hand, for it is by your orders that Rome burns.” The Emperor opened his tunic and bared his breast. “The guilty man takes flight. As I am innocent, I am not afraid to die.” The man hesitated, and casting the dagger away he departed. Later that man recorded the episode.

On the fourth night, while the Emperor was taking a little rest after a brief meal, Tigellinus said: “Caesar, why don’t you compose a poem on the Fire of Rome? What a subject for such a poet!”

Nero looked towards the gardens devastated by the flames: “Immortal deeds, immortal songs,” he uttered.  In ages to come the soldiers will sing these same songs by their camp fires. The common people will chant them like a great lament. A song that might be sung till the end of time...”

He seized his lyre, and leaving the room he walked out to the terrace. There he paused, and stood surveying the ruined City below and the sky that hung like a pall above the ruins of Rome. His friends who had followed a few paces behind saw that he was declaiming, but the words were drowned in the noise. Soon the Emperor stopped. For a short while he stood with his two hands upon the parapet of the terrace, staring below. Then he lifted his eyes to the mournful sky once more, and turning on his heels he descended the steps and re-entered the room.

But at the foot of the hill, from the hovels of the Suburra, a man ran out and scurried hither and thither crying aloud, “ Nero has caused Rome to be burned so that he may sing to the accompaniment of the flames!” The name of the man was Hilliel, a Jew of the Gaulonite tribe. By morning the story had gone from mouth to mouth, that Nero Caesar had mounted the Tower of Maecenas, to sing the song of the Fire of Rome. Thus Nero’s lament, that had remained unsung, gained immortal fame.

IX

The fire lasted six days and seven nights, and nothing could bring the flames under control. The flames devoured everything with such hungry violence that the danger disheartened the most courageous. Soon the Second, Third and Fifth Districts were an immense pyre in which the populace, mostly composed of excitable Orientals, saw the temples of Isis and Serapis crumble with their abodes. The cries of infants, the screams of women, the blind hurry of those who were fleeing and those who were endeavouring to help, made a chaos in which each one became an obstacle to another. The houses crashing down amidst clouds of red smoke, the shrieks of the victims, the dense choking smoke which the wind turned into a suffocating lava, the robbers plundering and pilfering, made the scene an inferno of terror and tragedy.

People had camped in the temple of Mars. In the cemeteries the larger tombs had been seized. The shops were sacked for bread. Everywhere bands of slaves, now without masters or overseers, threw themselves upon the escaping citizens, and butchered them to steal their small bundles of goods. Germans, Africans, Asiatics, all shouted in a babel of tongues. Around the Palace the Praetorian Guards were camped, armed with lances, with orders to draw blood should the crowd attempt a coup.

On the sixth day the mounting tide of fire was halted at the foot of the Esquiline Hill, by demolishing the houses in its path. The crowd by then had mostly taken refuge in the fields outside the City. Others camped in the public squares where they obstructed the work. And so, at last, it was possible to take stock of the calamity. Of the fourteen Districts of Rome, only four were left stand­ing. Three had been razed to the ground. The other seven were a cemetery of darkened, tumbling walls.

With two-thirds of the City destroyed, the most precious monuments of Rome had disappeared—the temple that King Servius Tullius had erected to the Moon, the temple of Jupiter Stator which was dedicated to Romulus, the great altar that Evander had consecrated to Hercules, the ancient palace of King Numa, the Penates of the Roman people, and the temple of Vesta with all the mysterious pledges of the greatness of Rome which were deposited in the sanctuary and the great trees of the cloister from which was suspended the shorn hair of the Vestal Virgins. Over the Capitol the flames had risen as high as the great statue of Jupiter itself. At the sight of this, the desolate crowd felt that Rome was indeed moving relentlessly towards her doom and many threw themselves into the flames to perish with their unfortunate City.

Rome, the epitome of the World! Rome who had contained all the other cities. Rome within whose walls one could recognize, in the same way as the smaller churches are nowadays marked upon the floor of a great Cathedral, the boundaries of Alexandria the Opulent, Antioch the Beautiful and Athens the Splendid! What amassed wealth, what accumulated spoils had perished! But most irreparable was the loss of the masterpieces of Greek art, the paintings, the statues, the manuscripts.

A world of ashes and a weary people are without feeling, and the dark and dour amongst them now spoke openly against Nero, accusing him of being the cause of the City’s ruin. Three or four hundred thousand people were homeless, without clothes and food. In dull amazement they contemplated the ruins of what had been Rome. Like flocks of sheep they wandered about the chaotic streets, gaping at the ruins of palaces and temples. But others marched about in bands shouting angry protests. It was urgent that shelter and food be found for the populace.

The Emperor ordered his Gardens to be opened, as well as the vast Campus Martius and the Monuments of Agrippa. He gave orders to build immediately huts and shelters and addressed an urgent appeal to the neighbouring cities for food and clothing. Bread, wheat and oil were distributed. No effort was spared to comfort and quieten the people.

Nevertheless the strange tale still went round—that on the night of the third day, when the flames were at their highest, the Emperor had climbed the Tower of Maecenas, in the dress of a tragic actor, and sang a poem upon the Fire of Rome.

When rumour of it reached the Palace, a Privy Council was called. It was no use denying the obvious. And it would be idle, at that juncture, to start seeking the detractors and instigators. The populace was in no mood to take sides, for or against. The fire had been too overwhelming a calamity to allow thought for anything else.

Said Tigellinus: “Why not make political capital of it?  “Yes,” he said, “let us humour the people, and ask them why has the Emperor ordered Rome to be burnt? Then tell them it was because he wanted to re­build another Rome more beautiful than the old one and give the Romans a more splendid City...”

Nero listened with a frown on his brow. If such had been his intention, would he have commenced the fire from the great Circus? That vast place of enjoyment would be very valuable to offer some distraction to the crowd. The House of Passage, that Caligula had built and which crowned the Palatine like a diadem, linked by tall arches to the Nympheum of Claudius, and from there extending towards the Esquiline as far as the gardens of Maecenas, that wonderful building too had disappeared. How would the people believe that Nero had ordered its destruction? Indeed, the anxiety to save the treasures contained in the House of Passage had been one of the reasons for the Emperor’s hurried departure for Rome. How could anyone believe that he had ordered their destruction?

X

As soon as the fire was dead, the customary propitiatory sacrifices were offered to the Gods. To placate the Gods was tantamount to putting the blame on them.

The Sybil’s Books were consulted. Prayers were addressed to Proserpine. Ceres was included, too, although it was not quite clear where the Goddess of crops and fertility came in. The ladies went in procession to Juno, first on the Capitol, then at Juno’s temple by the sea, which gave them an opportunity to stay away for a while. The floor of the temple and the statue of the Goddess were washed with purified waters. No one could be certain that Jupiter’s Consort was thus appeased, but everyone was aware that the Emperor’s enemies were not. Senator Subrius was openly attacking the Emperor, and was boasting of his desire to kill Nero; and the populace called Subrius pulcherrimum animum—a most beautiful soul.

The people accepted the clothes and the com and the wine that the Government so liberally distributed. They settled themselves as best they could in the public shelters whilst many found a profitable occupation in pilfering the ruined houses; and the Chief of Police advised that, in view of the present mood of the people, it was best to close both eyes to this.

At the end of the second week Nero informed his Councillors that he proposed to send a message to the Senate announcing that he was going to commence at once the rebuilding of Rome. And opening some rolls, he disclosed his plans for the new Rome.

Without delay, almost miraculously, the rebuilding of the City came to life. Huge armies of builders and carpenters were drafted from all the Provinces of the Empire to rebuild Rome according to the new plans. The streets were enlarged. Houses, in each district, were built in the same style and of the same elevation on both sides of the streets. There were well-proportioned squares from which arboured avenues spread star-like. Public buildings were built of a size proportionate to the needs and of a style in keeping with the neighbouring houses. Each block of private dwellings was provided with a large courtyard. The main streets were furnished with arcades under which people could shop in all weathers. House-owners were ordered to build of stone each block of houses, and that each must be detached. There must be water-reservoirs to be used in case of fires. The Emperor suggested that the frontages would look all the better if the houses had porticoes that could serve as shelter from both rain and sun, and he took upon himself the enormous cost of all those embellishments, for the house-owners soon allied themselves into an association, clamouring for a State subsidy. To promote speed in rebuilding, prizes and bonuses were offered to anyone who would build a house within a given time.

The ships that brought wheat from Egypt and Africa were used, on their return journey, to clear away the debris, which was dumped on the marshy land along the coast of Ostia. Down the Tiber there was a continuous passage of ships bringing food to the City and carrying away the rubbish. From all new buildings wood was eliminated or confined to fixtures, thus reducing to a minimum the risk of future fires. A Decree was issued preventing the wealthy owners from monopolizing water in their gardens and fishing-ponds; in fact, water was made a public property, and a new Corps of Watermen was created to inspect and keep guard on fountains and conduits; a new and more equitable division of all the sources of water was made and all citizens were to share in this benefit.

The Emperor was very proud of his new city-planning. Women, however, whispered that the piazzas in front of the houses made it difficult for lovers to meet unobserved.

The sight of the empty spaces left by the disappearance of the House of Passage was a great temptation to Nero to rebuild a new Palace. The Palatine dominated Rome. It was visible from all parts of the City; and it was the finest District of Rome. The House of Passage went from the Palatine to the Coelius above the Imperial Road. It would be absurd to leave it an eyesore of ruins.

Nero loved the spectacular. The power and glamour surrounding the Throne fostered in him the sense of the fantastic. He felt now that it was his duty to rebuild for the Emperor a new Palace worthy of Rome.

He sent for the architects Severus and Celer, and ordered them to prepare the plans. The new Palace should be of gigantic proportions, magnificent, and full of originality. It should contain such marvels of arts to surpass and eclipse every other royal residence, present or past. The architects were told that they could draw upon the Treasury, in fact upon the whole Empire.

The new Palace was built in seven months. It was called Domus Aurea.

XI

The plans for the new Palace covered a surface equal, in modem terms, to the Tuileries and Louvre Palaces in Paris and their gardens altogether.

As the fire had devoured more than two-thirds of the City, it was impossible to retrace under the ruins the narrow and small houses that had composed the popular Districts called the Suburra. Many owners, whose estates were due to pass automatically to the State or to the Emperor, had perished in the disaster. In a society selfishly given to celibacy and very largely composed of freed­men and individuals from all the comers of the world, the Emperor was, by law, entitled to the largest share of their succession. The impossibility of dividing the ruins equitably rendered it expedient, in the interest of the legitimate heirs themselves, that the Emperor should claim and apportion the whole estate. And the gaps created by the fire made it advisable to enlarge the Palace Grounds, so as to clear away the ruins that marred the view between the Esquiline and Coelius Hills and the Palatine. Out of those ruins rose Nero’s Golden House. It was a group of palaces, almost a small town in itself.

Like all patrician houses in Rome, it had a great court­yard in front and in the centre was erected a colossal statue of Nero, modelled by the sculptor Zenadore who at that time was in great renown for a statue of Mercury of gigantic proportions, which he had made for the city of Avernum in France. Zenadore made the statue of Nero one hundred and twenty feet high, cast in an alloy made of the richest metals. This statue remained standing for many years facing the new Circus Maximus, and the Romans, long after Nero’s death, used to say, “Let’s go to the Colossus.” Thus came to the new amphitheatre the popular name of Colosseum.

Behind this statue opened an immense peristyle one thousand steps long, with three rows of columns. The floor of the peristyle was of mosaic, made of coloured marbles, which surrounded the plinths of the columns, while the capitals, adorned with golden leaves, harmonized with the paintings upon the ceiling. Those paintings, gay or serious, were executed by many artists, working under the direction of “ the majestic Fabulus,” so called because he never worked without his toga and handled his palette and his brushes with great solemnity. Fabulus had studied under Ludius, who, at the time of Augustus, excelled for his seascapes and country scenes, and from the painter Pyroticus Fabulus had learned the art of representing fruit and animals in small pictures, thus starting among those Roman connoisseurs the taste for miniatures and still-life pictures. But Fabulus’s speciality were his large compositions, such as “Phoedre ready to hang herself after being rejected by Hippolitus,” or the large mural of “Coriolanus being disarmed by his mother.”

The art of painting on stone and of colouring marble had just been invented. Praxiteles used to say indeed that his most beautiful statue was “the one which was painted by Nicias.” For the Greek: artists had learnt to colour their marble statues by painting them or by injecting a dye into the stone. They put a blush upon the cheeks of a statue representing a young girl. The Romans went a step further and on certain occasions they dressed with magnificent garments and armour the statues of their Gods and famous men. This new device of colouring marble was extensively used in ornamenting the vast floor and long walls of the peristyle. It was also found most useful in the composition of mosaics, which require a great variety of colours, as well as in the decoration of rooms and galleries where the use of a uniform tone increased the effect, and varied according to the purpose of the place.

Under the porches and in the peristyle were large mural paintings depicting scenes from mythology and history. For that kind of painting the painters used colours mixed with Carthagenian wax which they dried off by means of a hot iron as soon as the colours were applied. This gave a surface that withstood the open air and it was what we now call encaustic. In some of the galleries the columns were bounded at the base by a wall as high as the hip of a man. The space within that wall was filled with earth and planted with shrubs and rare plants which, during the summer days, when the polychrome curtains were drawn, perfumed the shaded galleries.

It was not enough to build a splendid residence, for it was also necessary to furnish adequately the rooms, the halls, the galleries, the baths. It was necessary to give life to the apartments and gardens, to put in them bronzes and marbles, statues and groups.

But Nero would have in his Palace only fine works of art, the masterpieces of the great artists. An Artistic Commission was therefore sent to Greece and Asia to collect all that was worthy of the Emperor. Never was a collection of sculptures and pictures and objets-d’art more speedily and with less regard for cost!

President of the Collecting Commission was Acratus, a freedman of Nero, assisted by the philosopher Carinas. The two ransacked Greece to the last village. The temples of Delphi alone yielded five hundred statues. But here and there the people rose in protest against this abduction of their Gods and Heroes. Acratus and Carinas had, at times, to ask the local garrisons to keep the populace quiet. The “Venus of Milo” lost her arms in the combat and one night a group of citizens went to steal her back from the quay where the statue lay ready to be packed and shipped. They hid her so well that for nearly eighteen centuries the “Venus of Milo” was lost to mankind.

More than two thousand statues went to people the galleries of the Golden House. A multitude of guests, silent and immobile, surrounded the Emperor who wanted to be amphitryon of all the Heroes and Gods.

Nero displayed even greater luxury in the decoration of his baths. The water of the sea and the sulphur water of Albula, near Tivoli, were conveyed through special ducts and pipes to the Emperor’s baths and the swimming-pools. In winter, the reservoirs were heated and in summer the water could be refreshed by throwing snow into it, collected from the mountains and kept in special cellars.

The walls and floors of the baths were adorned with mosaics or lined with rare marbles. Mother-of-pearl and the rarest stones that one could find in the mountains of Asia Minor were used lavishly in the private apartments of the Emperor. The bedrooms, both of the Empress and of the principal guests, had beds made of scented wood, inlaid with gold and covered with rich Oriental tapestries, or with coverlets embroidered with pearls from the Red Sea arranged in arabesque designs. The walls were lined with panelling made of revolving ivory tablets set on pivots which turned at a touch, showing each time a different picture. Those panels were also arranged in such a way that they could throw flowers. Hidden machines could, at a touch, spray perfumes upon the floors, and in the ceilings of the dining-halls there were hidden conduits from which fell a gentle rain of perfume upon the diners.

Nero’s own bedroom was a vast apartment in which he kept his private collection. There hung the most ex­quisite paintings, in frames of carved ivory or delicate woods, and upon a special table stood the golden statuette of Victory with the lovely limbs, the faithful companion of all the Caesars, a beautiful precious thing that Nero superstitiously carried with him on all his travels. The Emperor’s bed was covered with a rare cloth of golden brocade, woven upon purple silk, and was adorned with pearls and precious stones.

Nero was highly superstitious, and as he believed in the magic virtue of stones, the walls of the sleeping alcove were encrusted with talismans of all kinds. There was the horn of Ammon, a gold-coloured stone, which had the virtue of giving the sleeper prophetical dreams; there was the jasper, favourable to those who had to deliver harangues; the amethyst, which prevented drunkenness, and the sacred agate of the Isle of Crete, which gave protection against the bite of spiders and snakes. But Nero did not know that a workman had placed, just where his pillow touched the wall, the blackstone spotted with blood, the baroptene which inspired monstrous things.

Next to those talismans, the dactyliotheque of Nero was the rarest and richest treasury in the world. All the temples of Rome and Greece were robbed to provide ornaments for the Emperor’s private apartment. From the Capitol itself the collection of gems of King Mithridates, which had been consecrated to Jupiter by Pompey the Great, was pilfered of the choicest specimens’ and treasures. Upon consoles of marble and tables of cedar­wood, pearls, diamonds and other precious gems sparkled in bowls of alabaster or agate. There was the famous opal which had belonged to Mark Antony, who had proscribed Senator Nonius for the purpose of confiscating the gem. There was the sardonyx of Polycarpus Tyrant of Samos, taken from the temple of the Goddess Concordia to whom the Empress Livia had consecrated it within a horn of gold, the agate of Pyrrhus the famous enemy of Rome—a stone into which Nature had carved the image of Apollo and his nine sisters with their attributes and symbols. And there was the beautiful emerald which Nero used as a monocle at the gladiatorial combats in the Circus, and the rarest of gems, a marvel discovered in the gold mines of Lamsacum—the celebrated emerald which had be­longed to Alexander the Great.

Upon other tables were arranged a profusion of statuettes of bronze and brass, the latter a metal which was a great novelty and was manufactured with much skill at Corinth. And there were the first pieces of Chinese ceramics ever seen in the Western world, brought by the caravans of Parthian merchants trading beyond Persia, and stem-cups of a fine exquisite substance that was neither glass nor porcelain and were called by the Romans murrine cups; and Nero had one of rare beauty, bought for him for three hundred talents. He furthermore had two small cups of rock-crystal, transparent and delicate like the thinnest glass. Upon a plinth of precious marble rested a statue fifteen inches high in smoked jasper, repre­senting Nero himself wearing a breastplate. There was also the Serapis, cut from one big emerald, and the statue of topaz which was made for Queen Arsinoe. In this apartment too was kept the golden lyre which Nero played to accompany his singing and declamations. The Imperial lyre rested upon a stand of ivory, surrounded by the golden crowns that Nero had won in the competitions of music and poetry.

Next to the Imperial apartments rose a great dome, representing the Heavens. It was the roof of the dining- hall, the chief masterpiece of the Golden House. For upon the interior of that cupola, stars and constellations traced in gold and diamonds rose and set according to their heavenly course. Fixed to turning pivots, the stars marked the Day and the Night, and reproduced the course of the Sun and the Moon and of the main stars of the firmament, depicted with all the nuances of light and shadow, f The whole banqueting room had been conceived to harmonize with that marvellous cupola: while the Sky moved over the guests’ heads, their feet rested upon Hell, the black frogs of the Styx and all the Kingdom of Pluto. It was a vast composition in the taste of the great mosaic that was in the temple of Fortune at Preneste. A figurative map of Ethiopia had recently been presented to Nero J and this had prompted him to have the walls of his dining-hall painted with figurations of all lands and rivers and seas of the known world, with the rivers traced and the principal cities represented by their chief buildings. Amidst those pictures, in which all the Provinces of the Empire were depicted, with their special products and crops, their animals, their inhabitants and particular customs, the Emperor could at a glance embrace the whole Empire. He was able indeed to say that, like Jupiter upon Olympus, he had his world under his eyes.

Afterwards many guests came to hate that room, for the revolving ceiling made one feel giddy, especially when the cups of Falernum had been too plentiful; but the machinery that made the room rotate was a marvel of engineering and its architect was rewarded with a fabulous prize. The wonder was that he was not liquidated to pre­vent him building another hall like it.

The many buildings forming the Golden House rose on the shores of an artificial lake, which was large enough to allow small ships to manoeuvre. In the vast gardens, lakes and ponds of fresh- and sea-water were laid, in which strange fish swam. Further away, all the animal monsters of the Indies and of Africa were enclosed in a small Zoo, both for amusement and for use in the Circus. Nero’s old racing horses, that had won prizes in the races, were pensioned in magnificent stables; their saddle-cloths were bordered with purple like a Senator’s toga. In the midst of meadows and pastures were huge aviaries, filled with rare and beautiful birds. To a monkey, of which the Emperor was particularly fond, was assigned a special house and the ape was attended by numerous servants. Next to this was the house of Asturcon, Nero’s favourite horse.

But the greatest novelty was to have enclosed within boundaries fields, dark forests and solitudes stocked with wild animals. There were monsters too—the hermaphrodite mules, and an anthropoid presented to the Emperor from Egypt. From the Near East had come the art of dyeing the wool of live animals and upon those fields grazed sheep of divers gay colours. There were rivulets and brooks, made picturesque by small mills, vine­yards and fields, their unexpected rural touch enhancing by contrast the marvels of art and the beauty of the landscape. Upon an elevation rose a small temple dedicated to Seia, the God of crops. The temple was built of an extraordinary stone which had just been discovered and has never been found again: “Under the reign of Nero,” wrote Pliny, “there was brought to Rome from Cappadocia a white stone, as hard as marble and transparent even within its coloured veins. Nero built with this stone the temple of Seia. When the door and the windows were closed, one felt within that little sanctuary the light that was outside, but not as we see it through the stone called specularia, but as though instead of corning through the stone the light was enclosed inside. It was a most seduc­ive effect”

When the whole palace and gardens were ready, Nero made a grand tour of the place. The party then returned to the forecourt, the Emperor smiled with appreciation and said: “Now I have a house worthy of a great artist.”

XII

Th luexury of Nero’s and Poppaea’s life involved enormous expenditure. Nero loved prodigality and splendour. To Spiculus the gladiator he gave houses and land which had belonged to Consuls who had earned a Triumph. For the moneylender Paneros he ordered a funeral worthy of a King. He never wore the same dress twice. When he travelled, a thousand carriages transported his luggage. The couriers who preceded his train, riding beautiful horses, were huge negroes adorned with necklaces and big bangles on their arms and legs, whilst the mules that pulled the carriages were shod in silver, and their drivers wore dresses of pure Caucasian wool.

The fire of Rome had brought to a climax the extravagance of Nero’s life; it had created a gulf which threatened to swallow his popularity and his fortune. To recapture the people’s affection Nero had recourse once again to the Circus games, with increased magnificence. His impresario Julianus brought the extravagance to the point of fixing buttons of amber to the nets that divided the arena from the audience. On one occasion, all the “props” for the games were made of this precious substance, including the gladiators’ weapons and the biers for the dead!

Day after day the combats of gladiators, the chariot races, the fights with animals went on, as well as the free distributions of meals and com, not to mention the lot­teries which gave everybody hope of winning a rich prize. Never were the Games so splendid. Panem et Circenses! Bread and amusement became the rule of life. The die-hards were often complaining that it was not so in olden times, but the politicians cynically replied that it was a sign of complete maturity to be fond of pleasure: indeed, to satisfy the people’s inordinate passion for pleasure was the only way to keep going.

Hastily repaired at an enormous cost, the Circus Maximus witnessed shows of unprecedented splendour.

Roughly constructed of timber under Tarquinius Drusus and enlarged later under the Empire, the Circus had become a most superb building. Julius Caesar had extended it, surrounding the arena with a moat ten feet deep and as many broad, to protect the spectators against danger from the chariots during the races. Claudius rebuilt the carceres in marble, and gilded the metae, that were the two focal points of the arena where the chariots took the turn. The Circus was the main centre of attraction in Rome; it was six hundred and twenty-five feet long and two hundred feet wide, and was big enough for two hundred thousand spectators. It was a by-word in Rome, and Nero, who was vain, said it in the sense that when he took part in a race all Rome rushed to the Circus to applaud him.

The Circus’s Games had a religious origin, for they had been instituted by Romulus. King Tarquinius gave them greater pomp, following the ancient Etruscan custom. Tarquinius was a great king, and for that he was expelled, for the people always want the misrule of a Republic after a great king. Later, the Senate decreed that the Republic should provide the Games with State money. Since then, the Magistrates had charge of the Games. Some looked after the administrative side, others were actually in charge of the programmes and made detailed arrangements with the impresarios who offered new turns and provided the artists for the theatrical shows, the gladiators for the combats and the beasts for the fights. The Curule Edile presided at the Games in Triumphal dress.

The great Gods in whose honour the Games were held, descended from the Capitol in solemn procession to come and sit among the people in the Circus, and before entering the Circus the procession traversed the Forum, headed by the Edile standing upon a chariot drawn by four white horses. The Senators and all the Magistrates followed on foot or horseback, according to their rank and dignity. On one occasion when Augustus was ill, he insisted on following the procession lying on a litter. Behind the Senators came the youths of fourteen and fifteen, who were already considered worthy of watching the Games, then came the sons of the aristocracy on horseback, the other classes followed on foot and divided into companies; all in perfect order, like a grand military parade.

After them came the chariot-drivers in war dress; there never were fewer than a hundred chariots, belonging to the four racing stables into which the Turf Club was divided, each recognizable by its racing colours and even more by the beauty of the horses and their distinctive harness; the Albata or the Whites, the Russata or the Reds, the Veneta or the Blues, and the Prasina or the Greens. It was a great sight, and it always drew the most thunderous applause.

After the horses came the athletes, each team marching together, naked and ready for the fight; then came the troupes of dancers, escorted by their musicians and choirs. The dancers wore long scarlet tunics with belts of polished copper, carrying a small sword at the belt and a short spear adorned with bright feathers and plumes. Some of them had helmets of brass adorned with aigrettes, for they danced the Pyrrhic dance, marching in time, each troupe headed by a band-master.

Then followed the choirs of Satyrs dressed in goats’ skins with tufts of long hair on their caps, and Silenes wearing rough tunics, chosen for their hairy chests and huge bellies and bibulous faces. They parodied in comic always the serious dances, to the accompaniment of music especially composed to enhance their amusing gestures.

The Gods came last, preceded and escorted by a large number of priests and attendants. The statues were carried upon litters on stands or upon gilt chariots drawn by four horses led by children of noble families holding the bridle, with crowns of oak and pearls upon their heads and dressed in purple and gold.

The four Pontiffs of the four Colleges closed the impressive march. The procession advanced along the streets strewn with flowers, under canopies of veils drawn from roof to roof, the houses and temples being hung with carpets and tapestries, and at every crossroad stood acolytes burning incense and perfumes in silver pans.

While the triumphal procession of the Gods proceeded towards the Circus through the Forum and the Velabrum, the populace was already crowding the Circus to its utmost capacity. From the Euripe, the large ditch which separated the lower range of seats from the arena and protected the public from the chariots and the savage beasts, up to the colonnade that crowned the uppermost tier, the multitude seated on the steps chattered and munched melon-seeds, and their noise could be heard as far as the Murcia Valley below the aristocratic Palatine or the Hill, as it was called. Suddenly someone shouted that he had espied the procession. All eyes became fixed upon the arena where the sand of specularia stone glittered and shone like a golden snow under the sun. Upon that resplendent arena the procession entered and displayed itself. Finally, the golden statue of the Winged Victory appeared. The two hundred thousand spectators rose as one man, saluting the Eternal Protectress of the Empire.

The procession made the tour of the arena; a propitiatory sacrifice was solemnly offered to the Gods, whose statues were placed with measured and precise gestures upon the Spina, the wide wall that divided the arena lengthways, or sometimes in the little temple under the pulvinar, that was the Imperial box. The Magistrates, the Senators and the Vestal Virgins, all mounted the stairs to the large tribune which rose right above the dungeons and stables from which chariots and beasts would emerge. In the Imperial box the Emperor was surrounded by his Court, while the adjoining boxes and steps were filled with members of the aristocracy. It was a gorgeous show ; the jewels and bright dresses; the fashionable ladies indulging in silken raiments imported from the East; the elegant courtiers in white togas bordered with purple; the shimmering breastplates and waving plumes of the Praetorian Guards.

Then the Games commenced. The Edile advanced holding in his right hand a roll of scarlet cloth, and threw it vigorously into the arena. The cloth unrolled like a tongue of flame or a jet of blood: it was the signal. The Heralds blew their long silver trumpets, and four chariots rushed out of the stables’ great gates and hurtled into the arena towards the starting line.

The first day barely sufficed for the chariot races, and the Games might indeed last thirty, forty, or even one hundred days. But the races were always the first show. Grooms in spectacular dresses held the horses at the bridle and the drivers made much display with the reins in one hand, the long whip in the other, a tight-fitting helmet of silver or gold on their head, their heels and legs swathed in bands of linen, the body in a short tunic of the colours of their stable, and wrapped around the waist were the long reins which the driver could, in case of emergency, cut with the dagger that was at his hip. Thus the chariots took position while the splendid horses held high their heads caparisoned with a gilded branch, their long tails turned up in a tight knot, the manes braided with silken ribbons and pearls, the pectorals glittering with golden ornaments and charms, the necks adorned with nets and the colours of their stables.

When all the competitors were in line, a trumpet was blown and the Edile gave the starting signal. For the races the Edile was dressed in a rich scarlet tunic, similar to the tunic of Jupiter Capitolinus. He had an embroidered toga of Tyrian red “ as large as a tent,” as Martial put it, and he was indeed a show all in himself, that gorgeous President of the Games, bedecked like an idol, holding in his right hand an ivory stick topped with an eagle with outstretched wings, and on his head a crown of golden leaves so heavy that an attendant had to hold it* and so rich that Martial wrote that one single rose from that wonderful garland would have sufficed to make a rare goblet for him!

The races, especially when the chariots were drawn by six horses or more, were so dangerous that from the moment the horses started and the dust began to fly under the narrow wheels the multitude applauded in wild excitement. The greatest danger to the competitors was in the risk of coming into collision with the axle-hubs of a rival chariot, that might overturn the vehicles and kill drivers and horses. Moreover, in each race the chariots had to go seven times round the arena, a total of two and a half miles, and as the two turning points at each end of the elliptical course were always on the left of the team of horses, a successful turn, when there were four horses or more, depended upon the agility of the two outer steeds, which were called funales because instead of being coupled to the yoke they were attached only by a rope. For the whole team was actually held by the driver in his hands, only the inner horses being yoked to the small saddles sticking out from the long pole that was attached to the middle of the chariot’s axle. The harness consisted of a bridle and a pair of reins, which passed through rings attached to the collar-bands and long enough to be tied to the waist of the charioteer. If the bend was turned at too narrow an angle the fragile chariot might break. On the other hand, if the turning was taken too wide, the chariot would lose ground or risk being hit by another. The drivers therefore strained all the time to incite the horses and at the same time to look back to avoid a collision with the chariots behind. Not for nothing the victorious auriga celebrated his victories with inscriptions that left nothing to the imagination: Occupavi et Vici— I kept the lead and won. Or he was the outsider that had won 100-1, Erupi et Vici. After each race special telegraphists released a storm of carrier pigeons that would bring to the sporting patrician in the country or to an official abroad the news of the victory of his favourite team.

And what splendid horses.' They came from the best stud-farms of Italy, Spain, North Africa and Greece, reared from the finest thoroughbreds, taken in hand at three years and trained for two, and when five years old put to the strenuous races of the Circus. Those with more staying power were put at the yoke, while the more spirited were used as funales; and each animal, upon the door of its box, had its pedigree and a full record of its performances. Their names were inscribed upon the oil lamps that the hawkers sold as souvenirs. Often a fond owner would have the name of his favourite horse inlaid in the mosaic floor of his country house: Win or lose, we love you, O Polidoxe! Of Tuscus we know that he won 386 races. Victor was true to his name 429 times. And the drivers! Apart from the prize money, the successful aurigae received fantastic salaries from the owners to retain their services. Rome was proud of the drivers who had won a thousand victories. They were called miliarii, and the names have survived of Scorpo who won 1,043 races, of Apaphrodite who had won 1,467 victories, of Pompey the Browny with 3,559 victories, and of Diodes who, having won 3,000 races with pairs of horses and 1,462 with four- in-hands, retired at last with 35 million sesterces in the bank.[‡‡‡‡] In the cafes of Rome, in the barbers’ shops and the Public Baths, everybody spoke of the love affairs and escapades of the most famous drivers. Their portraits were stencilled upon the walls and the curio-shops sold their busts in plaster and bronze. Between the races the bookmakers took the bets.

On the following days there were athletic matches, and the gladiators’ combats. Acrobats climbed at great speed the solid tortoise that thirty other companions formed with their shields held above their heads. Under the feet of the climbing racers the mobile tortoise trembled and clanged, for the racers wore boots with great iron nails and the blood soon sparkled on the arena. Real battles succeeded single duels; men fought against wild beasts; Thracian horsemen gave thrilling bull-fights; African elephants, carrying huge turrets filled with gladiators in armour, charged one another. From all the corners of the earth the most feocious beasts or the strangest animals were collected for the Games. The Ocean was dragged of its monsters no less than the Desert, for the naumachias were now very popular. In the East and in the Desert beyond the fertile plains of Lybya and Mauri­tania native huntsmen set traps for rare beasts to be sent to the Rome impresarios.

In the intervals between the games, the poets visited the noblest beauties in their boxes, scattering epigrams and elegant quips. Slaves in white tunics with their hair held by a scarlet ribbon distributed sherbets and iced melons and cakes, shouting their wares from tier to tier; a novelty instituted by Nero. Soon the attendants drew back the huge velarium of scarlet and yellow cloth that protected the spectators from the sun. The sky was now turning amethyst and a gentle breeze blew from the Alban Hills. From numerous pipes a fine rain of perfume fell upon the crowd. The attendants watered the arena to keep the dust down, and in the small conduit at the foot of each tier the water ran bright and clear, diffusing a pleasant freshness.

It was true that the greater number of bestiaries and gladiators left the Circus by the Libitine Gate, their corpses drawn by hooks, and others were carried away to die in the dressing-rooms where the managers cursed and counted their losses. But the winners had received palms, crowns, purses filled with gold and, more precious than all, their freedom, for Nero had set a rule that no gladiator should see his polluce verso, the Emperor’s thumb turned down. “ Why ask for their death? Alive they will adore me; dead, they will curse me in Hell.”

Soon the people near the eastern gate would begin to shout with joy and proffer their hands. It was the Edile rapidly traversing the middle gangway, and like a labourer sowing his field he scattered right and left hand­fuls of wooden balls engraved with a number. Those who were lucky enough to catch a ball would on the morrow present themselves to the Palace stewards and receive a gift corresponding to their number—a piece of furniture, an ornament, a vase, a statuette, a small painting, a purse filled with silver, a slave, a beautiful dagger. Some were lucky enough to win a cottage in the country or an apartment in town... The audience chanted and lifted their arms towards the Imperial box: “Ave, Nero Caesar, our Charming Prince!” The Emperor looked at them through his emerald monocle, nodding his head in acknowledgment.

But Games and Public Works were draining the Treasury. Nero was obliged to make the Praetorian Guards wait for their pay, and the Praetorians were his real standby. Other things influenced the situation—the great influx of foreigners coming to Rome after acquiring in the Provinces the right of residence and the restlessness of slaves brought about by the new Christian doctrine. All this increased the number of groups hostile to the Emperor. It was not an easy thing to clothe and feed the army of paupers created by the fire of Rome, and not as an ambitious extravagance, but because of the frequent shipwrecks around Cape Misenum the Government planned to cut a Canal across the Pontine Marshes, to enable the barges loaded with grain to travel safely to Rome. Yet the beaux of Rome lamented that the works in the Pontine Marshes ruined the vineyards where the Gecube vine was grown!

Nor was the populace grateful. Nero felt the shudder of isolation. Tigellinus took stock of the situation, and again whispered his advice: “Nothing will do but to discover the culprits who set fire to Rome. That alone will interest and satisfy the people.”

All at once the Emperor was surrounded by voices accusing the Christians. His Ministers, the Senators, the priests in the temples, philosophers, men of letters, everybody, Roman and foreigner, rose to accuse the Christians.

At last Nero called a Privy Council. As at all meetings at which Nero presided, business began with an interchange of witticisms. Then Nero got near the real matter in hand:

“The paternal administration of Claudius and my own liberal policy have made it possible for those men Peter and Paul to preach their new God in all the Provinces and even in my Praetorium.”

Tigellinus answered tartly, “ The Emperor’s over-generous tolerance of the Christians will be otherwise interpreted.”

Poppaea supported Tigellinus. The Emperor looked around and rested his eyes upon Seneca, who had been asked to attend the Council. In a mocking voice the Emperor said, “The Christians! I wish you would tell me something about these Christians. I hear that you are an admirer of the man Paul.”

Seneca answered, “It is an animistic religion. Rather complex to explain in a few words.”

But Tigellinus asked, “Has the Emperor ever heard their hymns? They call fire and horrors upon Rome... The Christians are a common crowd, mostly slaves and low-class foreigners. It would give the greatest satisfaction and pleasure to the Roman people to see the punishment of these slaves and foreigners who have caused fire of Rome.”

Seneca lifted a finger in his didactic manner. He would put it in this way, he said. He was not interested in their superstitions; they were neither very original nor particularly attractive. But what should cause concern, from a political angle, was entirely another point. “These Christians,” he went on, “are spreading strange social theories. They say that slavery is wrong; that slaves and masters are equal. This can be so, and I am not interested whether this is or is not subversive. But the fact is, where would anyone be if there were no slaves? There would no longer be labour for the mines or the factories.”

Seneca paused to wet his lips at his cup of plain water and Nero looked at him impassively, thinking how clever and lucid the old fox could be; how masterly he could turn anything good or bad into a sound reason of State ... Seneca continued, “ These Christians are preaching a new social order—a dangerous game. They believe in the equality of all men, and this new concept attracts the slaves and the poverty-stricken. It is something more dynamic than Spartacus’s movement. It is of no use to apply a milder and blander form of slavery for all Romans are doing it nowadays. But this new Christian gospel goes further and deeper.”

The Emperor smiled, pleased as he always was by a brilliant speech, and he looked around the Council table, at his Ministers and advisers, one by one. There was Lollius, President of the Senate, wearing the new style of shoes with the very thick wooden soles, which made it awkward for a corpulent man to walk. There was Foenius, the Commander-adjunct of the Praetorians, honest and intelligent as a soldier could be, but certainly caring one way or another, anxious only to see the Emperor preserve his popularity. There was Seneca, hiding his real mind as he had been doing for a long time, and there was Tigellinus, eager to see the Christians punished for the fire. Tigellinus—it would be curious to know what secret cause Tigellinus had for hating the Christians so much... And there was Poppaea, unofficial member of the Privy Council, whose view counted for so much nevertheless, even with him. The Emperor did not look at the Jewish lawyer, who had been invited to attend merely in an informative capacity, to give the views of the country from which the Christian religion had come.

The Christians, the Emperor thought, might provide a solution. The populace hated them thoroughly, and would therefore be satisfied. The Christians, as Tigellinus said, were mostly foreigners and freed slaves. There were also some Romans among them; but these could be quietly spared if need be. Or perhaps their punishment would act as a salutary example to the people of Rome not to meddle in alien religions and return more whole­heartedly to their proper Gods. Indeed, the punishment could be offered as a sacrifice to Jupiter Capitolinus and to Apollo. Yes, Apollo might be pleased, for he was too often forgotten in the medley of foreign deities. Afterwards the Emperor would announce his departure for Greece and maybe Apollo would be favourable to his artistic tour.

The Chief of Police now spoke, saying that this new superstition was making followers by the thousand, especi­ally among the lower classes. It changed their heart— the lower classes had no mind, they only had a heart which pushed them hither and thither. This new religion took them away from the beliefs of their fathers, upon which Roman life rested. The Emperor would be surprised, the Chief of Police went on, to learn how many converts this man Peter and the other man Paul, who at this moment was not in Rome, had made in the very Palace.

Nero looked up, “And what should the Emperor do with them?  The Chief of Police shrugged his shoulders. The example must come from Caesar’s house, and those had already been arrested. As a precautionary measure or in anticipation of the Emperor’s decisions? For both.

Tigellinus cried out: “To what purpose a trial? Why allow them to preach from the witness-box? Better try some of the leaders, and announce a general sentence. They brag of being Christians, they are all self-confessed. In every tavern there is but one subject of conversation: ‘What punishment will be devised for the Christians? ’ ” Tigellinus extended his two hands towards the Emperor in the attitude of a supplicant to a God, “ O Divine Caesar, it is important that the people shall speak of you only as a great artist.”

That night it was announced that the trial of the Christians would soon commence. The announcement met with general approval.

XIII

When the Chief of Police was ordered to collect the evidence against the Christians he found that his heaviest task was not to solicit but to stem the flood of informers. The strangest thing was that few asked for a reward. Who was sending them? Whose hand, or what motive, was behind that avalanche of information? Some of it was very interesting.

A young freedman of Poppaea, Narcissus by name, sent in a neat report:

 Some months before the fire a Christian, believing that I was a new convert, took me to a room where many Christian chiefs were assembled. I was told that in this room, hidden under the floor, were kept the rolls on which are written the chronicles of their religion, for the Deacons feared that certain hostile Jews who dwelt in the Grove of the Muses might try to steal them. In that room, that night, I saw the two main gospellers, Simon Peter and Paul of Tarsus, and a certain Tabeel whom they also called Rufus. Simon Peter, who had only recently re­turned to Rome, told of his preaching and organizing in other lands, then they all fell silent and intent. The room was now in darkness, lit only by the wavering flames of three torches set upon an altar. After a little while the man Tabeel began to toss and groan and mutter, acting like a Sybil before she gives out her prophecy. Presently he rose, his face quite changed, and where there had been only the man Tabeel there were now two persons—Tabeel and a stranger. Tabeel began to interpret for this stranger, who said, ‘He who dwells within me now is one who passed away through violent death into a holy life. I see him being stoned, and he is lying upon the ground, bloody sweat upon his brow, while the young men cast their cloaks at the feet of his persecutors and run away with fear and shame.’

“The man Paul cried out, ‘Tell us his name!’ Tabeel answered, ‘He gives me no name,’ and Paul said, ‘It is Stephen; it is Stephen whom I caused to be put to death in the days of my ignorance.’

“Then Tabeel sighed and groaned louder and louder, and went on: ‘Stephen is now in the form of an Angel and rejoices in that torture and death. And he says to me: “Behold, I come bearing tidings of the end.” Stephen is pointing to two dark Angels. They have wind in their wings, and fly over the city of Rome. The first Angel stretches up his hand and plucks a star from the sky. He is casting this star into the very centre of Rome. I see the star falling in places we all know, close beside the Circus. It kindles and fights up a twisted street. Now the Capuan Gate is all aflame, and a great fire is rising and spreading like a peacock’s tail. People are running and fleeing. The whole City is in an uproar. The flames of the falling stars spread swiftly, and the two Angels blow upon them. The Angel of Destruction is announcing quite loudly, “Babylon is passing, Rome is no more, her pride is crushed.” I see the temple of the Moon falling under the flames; the shrine of Vesta, the mighty temple of Jupiter, they all fall. The flames, like vipers of fire, climb the hills up to the Palace of Caesar. It is the end, the Day of Atonement, when the Dead rise and stand before our Lord.’

“Peter and Paul cried: ‘Tell us the day, the time of this! ’ But Tabeel groaned and tossed, and only said, ‘I cannot see; there is again darkness around me.’ He tossed and groaned; and speaking in the tongue of the Jews he said: ‘ Another summer will not pass before this City is destroyed by fire. There shall be great tribulations and many signs and wonders; but they are signs of the coming of Christ. And woe to Rome and to Caesar!

“Everybody in the chamber beat their breasts, and cried aloud in prayer. Tabeel fell back upon the ground and lay there. Simon Peter said: ‘ Brethren, bear these things in your hearts and impart them to no man. For they declare that the time is near at hand; keep watch, therefore, and be prepared.’ He quickly gave the assembly his blessing, and marvelling and muttering all went into the dark street.”

Another report said:

“On the first night of the fire a frenzied group was seen gathered around a man they called Hillel, who is another Chief of the Christians and well known amongst them as having preached at all times the destruction of Rome. There was also Peter; but although Peter called them to their chamber of assembly, Hillel cried, ‘The Christ is coming at any moment; the Heavens are opening; He will appear in all His Glory! ’ And he urged them all to sing hymns and thanksgiving to the Lord who was giving them the first sign by setting fire to the City. All the younger men marched down the street, chanting what they call the Psalm of David, with radiant faces, their eyes ablaze with hope, delight and ecstasy, believing that the Last Judgment had come and that soon they would be carried up to the Heavens.

“Hillel,” said the report, “was seen again with a great band of followers, watching a burning mansion, and their faces were so full of joy that people around them cried in protest: ‘Are you so glad of this destruction? ’ And the Christians answered, ‘Yes, for it is a sign of the end.’ Peter and Mark asked their followers to help to save the victims and the wounded; but Hillel said, ‘Why waste our labour? At any hour the Christ will appear from the clouds and the Last Trumpet will sound, and we shall be encircled by a host of Angels and carried into the Heavens

Another informer said that this attitude of Hillel had caused great dissensions among the Christians, and after the fire Peter with Mark had summoned Hillel to their presence and endeavoured to reason with him, but they could not change his passion and fanaticism, and he still talked of the wrath of God upon Rome. Whereupon Peter summoned all the faithful to a lonely place outside the City, and he announced that the time had come to determine the future of the Church in Rome, and while he and Mark and Linus were of one accord, Hillel stood apart. He proposed that his first Deacon Linus be the Overseer of the Church in Rome when he himself might go to other lands to preach the Word; but he denounced Hillel as having forfeited the faith of the Lord Jesus by refusing to save a woman who was perishing in the flames. Hillel, he said, would have us hate our neighbours, which is against our faith. But Hillel spoke with vehement passion, telling of the suffering of die Jews at the hands of the Romans, and again he affirmed that the fire was the first sign of the end of Rome. There came shouts of ‘ I am for Hillel the Gaulonite,’ or ‘ I am for Simon Peter of Galilee.’ The gathering broke up in turmoil and since then the Christians, said the report, were divided in Galileans and Gaulonites.”

But the Chief of Police felt that that story was of no import to the case.

One day a small packet of letters was placed on his desk, a correspondence between Seneca and Paul of Tarsus. There were the original letters from Paul, and neat copies of the letters from Seneca, prepared by an amanuensis of the great man. “For posterity,” thought the Chief of Police, “and how very useful! ” Eagerly he scanned the letters. They were of no terrific import but showed beyond doubt that Seneca was in close touch with one of the principal leaders of the Christians, and the followers of this new religion were now indicted as res­ponsible for the fire of Rome.

“Annaeus Seneca to Paul, greetings. I suppose, Paul, you have been informed of that conversation which passed yesterday between me and my Lucilius, concerning hypocrisy and other subjects; for there were some of your disciples in company with us. I desire you to believe that we much wish for your conversation. We were much delighted with your book of many Epistles, which you have written to some cities. Of such sentiments, I sup­pose, you were not the author, but only the instrument of conveying, though sometimes both the author and the instrument.”

Again from Seneca to Paul, “I have completed some volumes of your letters and divided them into their proper parts. I am determined to read them to Nero Caesar, and if any favourable opportunity happens, you also shall be present, when they are read...”

And Paul to Seneca, “ As often as I read your letters I imagine you present with me. I hope that we shall pre­sently see each other.” But another letter from Paul to Seneca said: “Concerning those things about which you wrote to me, it is not proper for me to mention anything in writing with pen and ink...”

Some months later Paul was writing, “ Although I know the Emperor is interested in our religion, I desire that for the future you will not mention me, for you had need be careful, lest by showing your affection for me you should offend your master.”

And there was one from Seneca, of recent date: “Annaeus Seneca to Paul, greetings. All happiness to you, my dearest Paul. Do you not suppose I am extremely concerned and grieved that your innocence should bring you into sufferings? And that all the people should suppose the Christians so criminal, and imagine all the misfortunes that have happened to Rome to be caused by you? But let us bear the charge with a patient temper... ”

The Chief of Police made some notes from the letters, then he put them away safely—they would come in useful some other time, and for some other purpose. And he grinned, thinking of the Empress’s surprise, and of Tigellinus’s astonishment should they hear this latest craze of our over-confident philosopher Seneca, former Prime Minister.

XIV

The trial of the Christians took place during the summer, the year 64. It was a quick affair.

A motley of prisoners stood in the Praetor’s Court, many of them slaves, ill-clad, dark men from the East. Here and there a better-dressed Roman of the lower classes. There were a few white-robed women, Eustachia, Mary who was lady-companion to the Lady Pomponia Graecina, wife of General Pomponius who had been a commander in Britain, and was now one of the steadiest converts to the new faith. There were also Claudia and Melania.

The prisoners’ leaders and spokesmen were Patrobas, Hillel and Junia. The medium Tabeel was brought in between two guards.

One by one the spies and witnesses gave evidence. They said that the prisoners had refused to help the citizens to put out the fire, and many had openly rejoiced at the sight of the great fire—and this was a partial truth. Patrobas was called upon to speak for the defence and he said that it was true that they all belonged to one community and worshipped Jesus of Galilee, who was the Son of God.

“ Then,” he was asked, “ are you all Galileans? ”

“Call us Galileans, if you like.” Therefore in the records of the trial the Christians were all described as Galileans.

But Patrobas denied any charge of incendiarism. He said his companions were all sober men who would abstain from deeds of violence, as it was contrary to their faith.

The Judge was beginning to doubt the testimony of the informers, when Hillel was summoned and questioned. With crazy eyes and fierce manner Hillel declared, “ The Christians have not set the City on fire—it was Jesus, the Son of God, who caused the Angels to cast down flaming stars from the Heavens to destroy Rome. O you Romans, our God is the friend of the poor and of the slave, and the end of Rome is at hand, and we rejoice at the burning of Rome for it is the beginning of the end. We would not help those who were perishing because it is well that all Romans should die! ”

At this there was great excitement among the public. The Judge said that it was plain that all who admitted they were Galileans were confessing that they were mem­bers of a revolutionary society which had as its purpose the destruction of Rome. They were therefore enemies of Rome, and as such their punishment was death.

After the sentence a vast crowd went before the Palace to acclaim the Emperor. How far the demonstration was a spontaneous one, nobody cared to enquire.

Nero appeared on the terrace, raising his right arm in gratification. It was indeed the first time that a demon­stration had taken place before the Palace—the new Palace—since the great fire.

Producers, directors and artists were called into consultation upon the form of a mass execution of Christians. At last it was decided to give a mythological fete in the Vatican Gardens—a huge gala night.

The Christians were arrested en masse. Soon the prisons were full and prisoners were placed in the dungeons of the Circus.

The first day three thousand Christians were tied to stakes, wrapped in clothes soaked with tar and oil. The stakes, joined crossways and fixed under the chin of the victims, were planted at intervals along the paths and walks of the vast gardens, around the small green alcoves, within the thickets, inside the little temples, near the statues and all around the race-course. 

Then, at night, those living statues were lit. The sulphur and the bitumen of their clothes flared up, raising thick, deep red flames. It was a fantastic spectacle. The dark gardens became a series of flaming avenues, of vibrating torches. The bodies writhed; their arms, purposely left free, beat the air, which was filled with horrible cries. The human torches seemed to be jumping towards the sky. Dense clouds of smoke carried the acrid smell of a huge sacrificial offering. From thousands of dying mouths rose a cry of agony. Here and there voices were heard, “I forgive my enemies. I am ascending to join God my Father in Heaven.”

The crowd was admitted to promenade along those flaming avenues. Many victims had been sewn inside skins of animals, and were now driven before the crowd. Patrobas led the band and looking towards the Emperor’s box he cried out a prayer for Nero’s soul. Melania, dressed as Dirce, her naked body lashed to the horns of an angry bull, was applauded as a great sight, the bull tossing its head and Charging round the arena.

When the fete was at its height, Nero, dressed as Apollo, on a chariot of ivory drawn by twelve Bacchantes, appeared on the yellow sand of the main avenue. A troupe of Nymphs burned frankincense before the chariot; another scattered petals of roses. The procession, escorted by bearers carrying torches reflected by mirrors, made the tour of the gardens, greatly acclaimed. Servants of the Palace passed the word that a fresh supply of iced wines and a sumptuous supper was awaiting the people of Rome.

While the Vatican was thus flooded with triumphal light and sinister flames, at a spot above the opening of the Vatican grottoes the families of the victims knelt in prayers. When the fete was over and the crowds were leaving the gardens singing ribald songs along the Via Triumphalis, the Christians came out of their catacombs and collected the martyrs’ ashes and bones. Before day­light the pious procession had disappeared again in the mysterious galleries and tunnels cut into the soft bowels of the hills.

The Chief of Police reported that all was quiet in Rome and talk in the taverns was of unanimous praise. Nero toyed with his necklace of large pearls: “Now we shall be able to get on with our task of rebuilding a more splendid Rome.”