THE LIFE AND TIMES OF NERO

Book Five CONSPIRACIES

I

COME weeks after the grim fete in the Palace Gardens, Seneca again begged the Emperor’s permission to leave Rome for good and retire to one of his country houses. He had to use a stick now, he said, for he was tormented by rheumatism.

The Emperor declined to give his consent. On the morrow Nero’s old Mentor pleaded a nervous breakdown and absented himself from Court.

The fact was that the depredations that Carinas and Acratus had made in Greece and in the East, despoiling the temples to fill the Emperor’s private collection, made Seneca feel that it was better to be rid of it all. Seneca was now anxious to dissociate himself from Nero; and notwithstanding his greed, he was even ready to surrender all the riches the Emperor had given him. But Nero saw through this game. His former tutor and Prime Minister wished to escape the odium of remaining a Privy Councillor.

Moreover, Nero felt that the desertion of his old Minister was fanning all sorts of rumours and slanders. In the course of ten years he had seen Seneca flatter Claudius alive and insult him when dead. He had seen him accept without qualms a large share of Britannicus’s estate; countenance the murder of Agrippina and justify the crime, yet now Seneca wanted to withdraw from this long complicity. It was the blackest perfidy.

The conspiracy of Piso soon convinced Nero that he was right about Seneca’s real intentions.

In the first place the Chief of Police reported that Piso and Seneca were visiting one another too frequently. Tigellinus, jealous of his colleague Foenius, added the latter’s name to the list, suggesting that Foenius wished to avenge Agrippina of whom he had been a lover. At the head of the conspiracy there was Piso, chosen because he came from a family that was related to the most illustrious houses in Rome. Piso looked the embodiment of honesty. He was straightforward in his friendships, liberal of mind and purse, and as agreeable as he was handsome. That was enough to give Piso an aura of popularity which stimulated his ambitions. As a matter of fact, he was neither very lofty of mind nor superior in morals, but, as Petronius was wont to say, Piso had that amiable kind of laxity that makes a ruler easy to exploit and not too boring to support.

The worst, for his fellow-conspirators even more than for himself, was that it was more than Piso could do to hold in his hands the threads of such a conspiracy. Actually, Piso was the nominal rather than the real head of the conspiracy. The real authors of it were a Tribune of a Praetorian Cohort by the name of Subrius and the Centurion Sulpicius; two soldiers of the old stamp, who could not forgive Nero for having turned the Imperial purple into an actor’s cloak.

At that point the conspirators gained the support of the Consul-designate Lateranus and Seneca’s nephew, the poet Lucan. Lateranus, with patriotic fervour and with­out any personal hate for Nero, and Lucan, on the other hand, with a pretence of having been slighted by s poetical genius and success. It had indeed happened that Nero, listening one day to the exaltation of Caesar’s murderers in a poem read by Lucan at a public lecture, after much irritation made a movement of impatience and rising suddenly from his chair left the hall followed by his Court, thus leaving a wide gap in the audience. And later, Nero let it be known that he did not desire that the poet Lucan should again be asked to give public readings of verses. The youthful author of Pharsalia never forgave Nero for this affront. He gave vent to his hate in the theatres and foyers, and at the Campus Martius he stooped as low as to scribble insults and epigrams on the walls. One day, in a company of friends, he quoted a hemistich from a song of Nero which was sung in town, and added to it an offensive sound Lucan had indeed completely lost his head. On all occasions he exalted to the sky the assassins of tyrants, insulted Nero in every way and promised anyone the head of the Emperor.

Strangely enough, among the first to join the conspiracy were two Senators whose bad reputation did not speak well for their civic virtues: Flavius Scevinus, whose motives were obscure, and Afranius Quintanus, against whom Nero had written a satire which was only too true. At their meetings the conspirators spoke only of the public good and of the crimes that must be avenged. They induced others to join them, Senecio who was a child­hood friend of Nero, and Natalis, an intimate of Piso who, alas, had very badly chosen his confidants.

For the Emperor the only fact that really mattered was that hate and contempt for his present life should have spread among the Praetorian Guards, the traditional bulwark of the Imperial House. Besides Subrius and Sulpicius, other officers were reported to have joined the conspirators: the Tribunes Silvanus and Statius, the Centurions Scaurus and Venetus, and Foenius, who shared with Tigellinus the Command of the Guards.

When the conspirators saw that they could count on Foenius, they began to discuss the ways of carrying out the plot. Some wanted to set fire to the Palace and take advantage of the confusion to strike at the Emperor. Others suggested an attack on Nero while he was performing on the stage.

The plotting dragged on for many months, feeding on mere idle talk, till it became an absurd machination, open to all the discontented and to the fools. While the months were thus passing, a courtesan who was a party to the plot, felt so disgusted with the procrastination that she shook off the dust of Rome and went to take the waters at Baiae. Her name was Epicharis. At Baiae she contrived to use her professional influence to gain new recruits to the plot. The officers of the Fleet stationed at Cape Misenum were handsome and easy to convert. From the pleasantness of the Campanian coast the execution of the plot seemed an easy matter. Patricians and the very wealthy had villas at Baiae. From a spa, where gouty people used to go for the sulphur baths, Baiae had become a fashionable seaside resort. Among the most luxurious villas there was the one of a popular theatrical impresario, and another of an army contractor, who had amassed a fortune during the Parthian War, and was now living in the once famous palace of Lucullus. The Emperor himself was very fond of Baiae and had a pavilion there.

A frequent visitor of the lovely Epicharis was Volusius Proculus, one of the Commanders of the Fleet. Volusius had a grudge against the Emperor, whom he reproached with ingratitude. He felt that he was badly treated at the time of the murder of Agrippina and he would not hesitate, he said, to take his vengeance. Guilelessly, Epicharis disclosed to him the plot. Volusius ran to Nero and lay down all he had learned from the courtesan.

The Emperor was taken aback. The thought had never occurred to him that he might be unpopular. I” am so generous, I am so clement.” He repeated Seneca’s words, “Clemency not only increases the glory of a Prince, but increases the security of the Throne.”

After Volusius’s denunciation, Nero turned the matter over for some time. The poor naval officer was discon­certed, for he had hoped for an immediate crisis, with condemnations and deaths, out of which he would have reaped the gratitude of the Emperor. Instead, Nero simply ordered the arrest of Epicharis, and confronted the informer with the woman. Volusius re-affirmed his some­what vague accusation, which the courtesan denied with a smile. Her meetings with Volusius had had no witnesses and she was able to deny everything. But the Chief of Police thought it wiser to keep her in “protective custody.”

Still Nero wavered. Should he inflict a blow and have a string of corpses around his Court? He demurred. It seemed to him that his reign had already lasted a century, an aeon of rare triumphs and terrifying nightmares. One night he dreamt that his throne had changed into a galley, with purple sails, floating without a pilot upon the sea, a sea as red as blood. And in that sea, banging against the sides of the ship, was the corpse of his mother, her head bobbing up and down on the waves; her head that was still so beautiful and was shouting horrible prophecies.

The matter of the conspiracy was dropped.

But when the conspirators learned of the arrest of Epicharis, they were taken by such fright that they decided to act at once. But where? And how? A dagger or poison?

After much thought and more futile talks, they decided upon a plan. Piso had a charming villa at Baiae, in a position which Nero had always found delightful. Now Piso had not been denounced. He should therefore take advantage of this and invite the Emperor to his house. But Piso declined. The idea, he said, of violating the rules of hospitality was much too horrible.

Piso was, or pretended to be, a sceptic. Although his fellow-conspirators had decided to designate him as the next Emperor, he was not much impressed, and looked upon the plot as a play by dilettanti. He was considered a virtuous man, but virtue is very often nothing more than a veneer for our vices. Piso did not believe in the Gods, although he did not use blasphemous words; he was a libertine, but not a drunkard or a degenerate; his mode of living was luxurious, but not offensive. In short, Piso was but a man of his times, without any real qualities, without convictions, without greatness or anything deep. He was simply a polite and charming gentleman, with enough cynicism to appear indulgent, and enough amiability to look superior. But did he really want to be Emperor? Of course, if all went well and his friends should insist, he would not refuse. If they wanted to assassinate Nero, it was their own look-out, but really he did not want to have anything to do with it. It would be repugnant to sit on the Throne of a man one has helped to murder. A most inelegant idea.

Piso told his friends that he would certainly have nothing to do with the idea of killing the Emperor in his own house. He simply could not allow one of his guests to be murdered in his very house. It was a form of inhospitality that he could not admit. As his friends looked at him disconcerted, he added, “I even wonder whether a murder, in such circumstances, might not make the victim popular with the people. If you want to kill Nero, kill him in Rome, in the full exercise of his Imperial duties, as you would kill a tyrant. Then you can tell the Roman people that you have acted for their good. But in my house? Why, afterwards I should have to set fire to my villa. And my villa is so lovely, such a fine position!”

It was, of course, only a ruse. Piso was afraid that a deed so revolting would incur the odium of the people and destroy his Chances of ever ascending the Throne, which might then pass to Silvanus, the grandson of Augustus, or to the Consul Vestinus.

At last, after much hesitation, the conspirators decided to carry out the plot during the Circus Games for the feast of Ceres, on the 12th of April. Nero, who now spent his time in the new Palace, would surely come into the Circus. It would be easy to approach the Emperor, either during the procession of the Roman ladies who carried with great pomp an egg, symbol of all life, or during the hunting Of foxes released in pairs in the Circus with flaming torches attached to their backs. It was agreed that Montanus, who was strong and courageous, should throw himself at Nero’s feet and beg monetary help for his private affairs; then he would seize the Emperor’s legs, throw him on his back, and hold him on the ground while the Tribunes and the Centurions would finish him with their daggers. Scevinus begged the honour of the first blow. He showed the fellow-conspirators a little dagger that he had taken, he said, from the temple of Fortune. While the assassination would take place, Piso should wait in the temple of Ceres near the River and there the conspirators would come, guided by Foenius, to lead Piso to the Campus Martius and present him to the Praetorian Guards to be acclaimed. It was later said that Antonia, Claudius’s other daughter, had promised to marry Piso for the purpose of strengthening his claims to the Empire.

A few days later things came to a climax. Scevinus, the deadliest of the conspirators, returned home from a long talk with Natalis. This Natalis had been placed by Tigellinus near Scevinus, for the purpose of keeping an eye on him and on Piso.

Thus, on the very night before the Games, Scevinus, Who was full of talk and imagination, gave the secret away, his nerves worn out by too many late parties. In­deed, Scevinus returned home, closed himself in his study, wrote his Will and then he took out the famous dagger. He tried the point and called his freedman Milichus. With a mysterious air he whispered to him, “Quick! Get the point well sharpened! Time is pressing. This is a sacred dagger and comes from the temple of Fortune at Feren- tum. Tomorrow the fortunes of the Empire will depend on it! ”

Then Scevinus called his slaves together and freed them. He read aloud his Will, which contained bizarre legacies. In the middle of the night he ordered a great banquet. And now and then he enquired about Milichus, “Why is he so long in bringing the dagger?” At the end the freedman returned with it, and Scevinus most foolishly uncovered his plans by ordering his freedman to prepare bandages and make all kinds of absurd preparations.

Milichus guessed his master’s secret and confided his suspicions to his wife. She urged him to denounce their master—great indeed would be the prize they would gain by saving the Emperor’s life, and even greater the danger they were running by keeping silent. At daybreak Milichus hurried to the Gardens of Servilius where the Emperor was in residence. The Gardens were on the left bank of the River, on the Ostia side, above the Port, near the mouth of the Anio. There, under centuries-old trees, along avenues adorned with Greek statues, Nero enjoyed the quietude of a town retreat that was almost rural.

Milichus presented himself with a resolute air and said that he desired to have word with the Emperor. The officer of the Guards told him to hold his peace and go his way; but Milichus cried so loud that he was the bearer of a great secret that at last he was brought before Epaphroditus, the Emperor’s private secretary. Epaphro- ditus listened to the tale and decided to take him to the Emperor. On bended knee, dramatically Milichus announced that a great conspiracy was on the point of taking place. He denounced his master Scevinus and told the Emperor his story in great detail.

One hour later Scevinus was arrested and confronted with his freedman. He defended himself with much com­posure, and called Milichus a scoundrel and a twister. Nero was on the point of believing him, when unluckily for Scevinus, Milichus’s wife appeared. She told the Emperor of the secret meeting that had taken place the previous day between Scevinus and Natalis. The latter was immediately fetched and he and Scevinus were questioned separately. Their answers disagreed. Threatened with torture, both gave way at the mere sight of the dreaded instruments. Natalis confessed the plot and named Piso; then he accused Seneca.

From that moment, confessions and betrayals followed one another. Scevinus, realizing that he was lost, gave away Senecion, Quintanus and Lucan. Senecion and Quintanus denounced their best friends; the poet Lucan, so noble with the pen, accused his own mother.

At that point Nero remembered the courtesan Epicharis who was still waiting in jail. She was ordered to be ques­tioned again, and Nero felt sure that a woman would not withstand the tortures at the sight of which men had collapsed. But Epicharis remained silent. Neither the whip nor the knife nor the hot irons made her speak. The following day the inquisitors attempted to renew their examination; Epicharis’s body was broken and bleeding arid she had to be carried on a stretcher. But rather than give way she strangled herself with the handkerchief that was attached to the stretcher-bars.

All Rome trembled. Who had not, in their secret heart, wished for the Emperor’s death? The Emperor shut himself in the Palace, like an exile in a lost island. His rooms were guarded day and night. The City walls were garrisoned with troops as if the enemy were at the gates. The Fleet came up the Tiber and held the City under her catapults. Arrests were the order of the day.

At the height of the trials Piso was urged by his friends to attempt a desperate coup by appealing to the people from the rostra in the Forum and denouncing the tyrant. But Piso only shrugged his shoulders, and answered that it was simpler to await in comfort the Imperial order to commit suicide. When the order came, Piso asked his physician to cut his veins in the bath, and hastily dictated a Will full of praise for Nero, vainly hoping to secure a small part of his estate for his wife Arria, whom he had taken away from his friend Domitius Silus.

After Piso came the turn of Lateranus. He was a Consul-designate, a man Of some courage. Lateranus was beheaded on the spot where the condemned slaves were put to death.

And at last came Seneca’s turn.

The old fox had behaved rather equivocally. On the very day that the plot was to be carried out, Seneca had come near Rome, and had a meeting with Subrius and some Centurions. For there was a plot within the plot, the Tribune and some of his friends intended to pass the Empire to Seneca and get rid of Piso even before the attempt on Nero.

Granius Silvanus, an officer of the Praetorian Guards, was sent to question Seneca. Granius, too, was in the plot, but the position was now that each one betrayed the other to save his neck. Seneca admitted that he had received a visit from Natalis, and very quietly told what had taken place.

Granius returned to the Palace to report. Nero asked, “Is he getting ready to die?” Granius answered that he had not seen any sign of weakness or fear in the old man. Poppaea and Tigellinus, who were with the Emperor at that moment, sneered with contempt. “Go back at once,” shouted the Emperor, “tell him to make ready to die.”

Still Granius declined to go to Seneca, and sent a Centurion in his stead with the Emperor’s message.

When the messenger arrived, Seneca was at dinner, with his wife and two friends. He listened impassively; then he asked for his Will, and calmly added to it a few codicils with bequests for his friends. But the Centurion told him to cut the matter short.

Seneca turned to his family and friends, “As I am prevented from recognizing your devotion and your services, I leave you the only thing that I can still dispose of —the example of my life.”

With this last piece of buffoonery the philosopher made ready to die in the grand manner. His wife and his friends were in tears whilst Seneca spoke to them words of comfort. Then, he himself shed some tears in taking leave of his young wife Paulina. She cried out that she would rather die with him. That seemed to please the old man a great deal and quietly he watched Paulina preparing to join him in death. The physician opened the veins of both, but as Seneca was weakened by old age, he bled very slowly, whereupon he asked that the veins of his ankles be cut too. Suddenly the pain was too strong, and to cover his suffering he asked Paulina to let herself be transported to another room. Once alone, Seneca adopted a proud attitude, and calling for his secretary he com­menced to dictate his last words with much eloquence. He recalled his youthful years and his exile. He mentioned his four tracts on the Consolation of Philosophy for it was then that they had chosen him to be Nero’s tutor and Mentor. That was the terrible thing of his life—he had brought up Nero on good orthodox doctrines. He had babbled to him about goodness and justice and mercy—and it was all a sham.

Now what was the good of dictating his farewell to life? Death was slow in coming. Seneca asked the doctor to give him poison and drank the 'hemlock. “Like Socrates,” he said, for nothing less seemed decorous enough. But the hemlock had no effect either. Seneca asked to be placed in a hot bath, and sprinkling with water the friends and slaves who were standing around him, he invoked Jupiter Liberator. At this the Centurion lost his patience and shut the lid of the vapour bath with both hands. Thus the great Seneca died.

The same night Nero’s tutor, philosopher and mentor was buried, as he had prescribed in the Will he had written in the days of his good fortune, without pomp or ceremony. Seneca’s death, however, left Nero pondering. He spoke of it at dinner, albeit it was a rule with him never to mention sad subjects at table.

“He was an envious man,” Nero said. “He was covetous and grasping. He loved riches, he was intemperate in his desires, he amassed wealth by any means, he imposed enormous usury upon the Provinces and shared the spoils of innocent victims. He betrayed friend­ships, he was disloyal in his duties, he was as humble and fawning in his exile as he was proud and selfish in the days of his fortune. He was devoted only to one person—himself.”

Then he added: “Yes, Seneca was all this. And he was my tutor.” And with that queer mixture of naiveté and sarcasm, Nero looked enquiringly around at his guests. No one spoke. After a while, he added: “After such a career, Seneca had the impudence to recommend his life to the admiration of posterity! Really, he overdid his last scene.”

II

Terror and persecutions are like the ripples that a little stone causes when tossed into the still waters of a pond; each successive ripple becomes larger and larger, till the last one seems to overflow the banks. Under the incessant denunciations the number of conspirators on trial grew and grew. Nero discovered the most unexpected enemies hidden in his own Palace. At all hours of the day com­panies of Praetorians were marching through the City and across the fields bringing new political agitators to the prisons hastily built in the very gardens of the Palace.

Before the Security Tribunal, where the Emperor sat between his two assessors, Tigellinus and Foenius in their capacity of Praefects of the Praetorium (one was going to betray him and the other had already done so), Nero himself examined the accused. The judges again called Scevinus, who was of an impressionable nature and easily carried away. It was clear that he had not yet spoken all he knew. But at the very moment that Nero was making ready to question Scevinus once more, his principal accomplices were there, yet free and unsuspected; some judges themselves. Subrius the Tribune was only await­ing a sign from Foenius to strike. His hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, his eyes questioning his chief. But Foenius held his hand, for Nero was surrounded by the German Liege-Guards whose devotion knew no bounds. Moreover, behind the Emperor stood Cassius, a man of Herculean strength. As in some play about a fabulous tyrant, the Giant stood guard over his Lord. And Foenius was a cautious man. But his cleverness was going to defeat him. He thought it wise to appear over-zealous, and he accused his own accomplices pitilessly. Nero himself and Tigellinus were surprised by his ferocity. But Scevinus felt indignant, “Say it yourself, Foenius. Reveal to our divine Nero Caesar the details of our plot, which you know as well as us.”

Next day was the turn of Subrius, who, disgusted by the cowardice of his accomplices, proudly cried aloud his own guilt. Nero was deeply moved by the defection of an officer of the Praetorians. “Why did you conspire against me?” he asked Subrius. The answer was, “Because I hate you. No one was more faithful than I when you deserved our affection. Yet now there is only hate and contempt for the murderer of his mother and of his wife; for the Emperor who has turned comedian!”

Nero felt overwhelmed. The accusations were as new to him as the reasons of those black deeds were old and forgotten. The ancient frankness of the Roman soul survived. Freedom of speech was still granted to the accused and there were only two tunes among Nero’s subjects—flattery or insolence. Had he, the Emperor, mistaken flattery for truth? Subrius’s answer was a great shock; the greatest shock Nero had received, for he was honestly convinced of the superior reasons of State that had dictated the death of his mother; and his fame as an artist was his own personal achievement and glory. As for the fire of Rome, he was entirely and absolutely innocent. Had he not transformed a misfortune into an opportunity for rebuilding a more splendid and modern city? Had not the idea of Rome and the needs of the people been his only concern? “Why? Why?” he petulantly asked Subrius.

Subrius died like a soldier, coldly appraising the sword that was going to sever his head. All the Praetorian officers died well. Only Foenius shed tears and sighed over his Will. Young Lucan, on the example of his uncle, opened his veins in a hot bath and then suddenly remembered a passage in his unfinished poem Pharsalia in which he had prepared to describe the agony of a soldier dying as he was now dying. Signalling to a secretary he dictated six lines, asking that they should be added to his poem.

For political reasons the Consul Vestinus was only proscribed, for Vestinus had married Statilia, although the Emperor was one of her many lovers. On the day of his sentence Vestinus attended to the duties of his office and gave a dinner as though he had nothing to fear. A Tribune brought him Nero’s reproach for living in a house that was like a fortress dominating the Forum and possessing a family of slaves that was like an army. Vestinus quietly took leave of his guests, retired to his bathroom and his doctor cut his veins.

Seneca’s young wife was spared. But the islands of the Aegean Sea were now peopled with exiles, who met in groups as large as colonies. The purge was vast and drastic.

Afterwards the temple of Jupiter on the Capitol was filled with offerings. The victims’ relatives garlanded their houses with laurel, waited in the streets and threw themselves at the Emperor’s knees. His hands became weary with kisses. In a sudden rush of emotion, and to forget the terror of it all, the Emperor distributed gifts to those who had served him well. Natalis was honoured, the freedman Milichus was ostensibly remunerated and granted permission to add the epithet of Saviour to his name. The Praetorians were ordered to assemble in the Campus Martius and the Emperor in person distributed a bonus of one thousand sesterces to each man. It was also announced that in future they should receive the grain free, at the Emperor’s expense. The Senate held a special sitting, and at the Emperor’s request conferred the ornaments of Triumph on Petronius and Tigellinus and on Nerva who was Praetor-designate. Nerva and Tigellinus, as an additional honour, were voted triumphal statues in the Forum and in the Palace grounds. Nerva, who was one day to become Emperor and had already adopted as his son Trajan, remained through all his life loyal to the memory of Nero. And it was upon Nerva’s example that the favourable opinion which Trajan held of Nero reseed.

After this, things became more normal again. Thanksgivings were rendered to all the Gods and in particular to the Sun who had cast his light upon such a tenebrous plot. It was decided to erect a temple to the Goddess Salus upon the spot where Scevinus had taken out his dagger, first evidence of the plot. It had already been voted that the month of April should be called with Nero’s name; Senator Cerialis now proposed that a temple should be erected to Nero. But about this Nero felt the same as Tiberius who had always declined all divine honours. He said that he would rather be exalted as a great artist than a second-rate God.

The conspiracy had another result: that of bringing into prominence a certain Nymphidius. He was the son of a courtesan who was well known to all the officers in Rome. Nymphidius’s tall stature and a certain ferocious air gave him a resemblance to Caligula, and indeed, he liked to boast that the late Emperor was his father. Nero chose this bogus Imperial bastard to succeed Foenius as Praefect of the Praetorians. He made a good pair with Tigellinus.

A few nights later, after dinner, the Emperor passed his hand under Petronius’s arm and walked out with him into the gardens.

“Petronius,” he said, “I want you to be my Prime Minister.”

Petronius turned his head slightly to look at the Emperor. He found the offer rather strange and for one fleeting moment he felt a touch of annoyance lest it should prove too tiresome to decline the offer with good grace.

Nero said again, “Will you accept?”. Petronius was not only an Epicure, but a man of taste and perfect distinction. Born in Marseilles, of an immensely wealthy father, he had come quite young to Rome, and throughout his life he always had shown himself above all the positions he had held. Social life he had pursued with aristocratic ease and when entrusted with the government of Bithynia he had displayed a vigorous intelligence. After his return to Rome, Nero had taken to him at once. The Emperor had nicknamed him the Arbiter of Elegance, and Petronius had not disliked the name. After all, it was a good description. In all delicate questions Nero consulted his taste. His advice was often accepted, and nothing was worn or done by the Beaux at Court that was not first commended by Petronius. He was—now the Emperor thought—a man whom Nature had gifted with a nonchalance that took him easily through life. An expert in the art of enjoying life, neither violent nor debauched, always expressing the most licentious thoughts in pure language. A man who knew how to avoid excess and put distinction and grace into his vices. He gave the day to sleep, away from business, vulgarities and trouble­some people, and the night he spent in pleasures with a few well-chosen friends, men who could talk well and knew that a dinner-party is made of good conversation as well as of good food and wine. Nero greatly enjoyed Petronius’s company; his way of walking slowly, with an air of indolence and fatigue; his drawl in speech; his economy of gestures, and his person that seemed tired by too long resting, yet there was no trace of pose in anything he did. Nero felt that if Petronius would now be his Prime Minister, he might find a new incentive to live and rule in a different atmosphere. Petronius was sure to bring it about. The populace of Rome adored him. Perhaps the very crowd found him so different, so gentlemanly, so more Roman than all the clowns that danced around the Court. And Tigellinus’s conception of life and pleasure seemed to smack of the servants’ quarters and of brothels. Nor did Tigellinus take very seriously his master’s artistic aspirations. Petronius instead was the personification of Art itself.

Gently, almost hesitatingly, the Emperor touched again his friend’s arm. How strange it was that with Petronius he almost felt shy! “Shall I announce at once that I have appointed you my Prime Minister?” And Nero looked at Petronius’s handsome face and slightly cynical eyes.

Petronius flicked the stem of a flower with his ivory cane, paused, and then shook his head. “Nero Caesar,” he said, “it is a great honour—or is it a favour you are asking of me? But it is too late.”

“Why too late? Think of the years ahead, of the greatness we can bring to Rome! With your clear judg­ment, with my great Art...”

Petronius shook his head again, “ It is too late, Nero Caesar. I am tired of life. You see, one should not live too long. Life becomes a frightening thing. Men like you and I should die young.”

III

A marked change was taking place in Nero. While the Senate lowered itself to abject adulation, Nero’s pride seemed to touch the limit of folly. Petronius’s refusal to become Prime Minister spurred Nero to return to his writings and to the stage. He felt he wanted to show his friend that he was above mere human beings. He was angry with Petronius, yet he needed his presence. The cynical and mocking eyes of the Arbiter Elegantiarum were a mirror in which Nero saw hints on how to correct many of his acts and thoughts.

One day a certain Bassius from Carthage, a man who had recently been knighted, arrived in Rome with the tale that he was on the point of discovering the treasure of Queen Dido, which, according to an ancient legend, was buried centuries before in a cavern. This Bassius showed a free hand to some Court officials, thereby obtaining an audience of the Emperor, a thing that was no longer easy since Piso’s plot. The story of Dido’s treasure sounded a very tall one. But a queer thought crossed Nero’s mind. The idea of a fantastic treasure trove could be most con­venient for all sorts of purposes. It was thereupon announced that a fleet would be placed at the disposal of Bassius and the newspapers published articles about the Treasure Fleet. The romantic story of Queen Dido, deserted by her lover Aeneas, was duly polished up. Orators and poets were instructed to celebrate the good luck that would put into the Emperor’s hands untold riches with which to indulge his munificence and amuse the Roman people.

In that chimera Nero found a pretext to engage in expenses even greater than before. For several months the Ministers had been busy with plans for a Canal which was to join Ostia with the Lake of Avernus, beyond Naples, so that ships could pass through without a sea voyage. Really it was a fantastic idea to build such a canal one hundred and sixty miles long and of a breadth sufficient to permit ships with five banks of oars to pass each other; yet the Emperor had ordered all prisoners from every part of the Empire to be brought to Italy and set to work. To finance the scheme—he now said—he would have the immense treasure of Queen Dido. “ Anyway,” Nero told the Senate, “the revenue of the Empire is much too great, and it would only make money cheap if we kept it in the banks.”

Queen Dido’s treasure soon proved what it was, a fairy tale, for Bassius, assisted by an army of native workmen, dug up the soil of Carthage and, of course, found nothing; and after a time he killed himself in disgust. When the Emperor found himself in difficulties with his Canal plans, all sorts of means were devised to get funds. Three- fourths of the estates of the richest freedmen were brought compulsorily into the Exchequer upon their decease with the excuse that the freedmen bore the name of a family without sufficient reason. The estates of all such persons who in their Wills had not been sufficiently mindful of the Emperor were confiscated and the lawyers who had drawn up the Wills were heavily fined. Private individuals were forbidden to use garments dyed the colour of amethystine or Tyrian purple as pertaining to the Emperor,! and those who wore them were fined. When no other money could be raised, the temples were rifled of the rich offerings; gold and silver statues were melted down, not excluding the statues of the House Gods of Rome, who were kept in the Capitol and considered the City’s Protectors.

At the same time, Nero was very busy with the stage. For the second celebration of the Games instituted by him, he planned to show Rome what an artist the Emperor was. The Senate, somewhat alarmed, tried to avoid the repetition of this absurdity by granting in advance to the Emperor the Eloquence and Poetry Prizes. But Nero refused them: He did not need any favour to assure him of victory, the equity of the judges was enough.

On the day of the Games, Nero commenced by declaim­ing a poem of his own composition. The crowd in the Circus rose as one man and asked to be granted the favour of witnessing all the Emperor’s talents. Whereupon Nero formally entered the competition. His name was enlisted, for like all other competitors, he submitted to the rules. Two hundred thousand spectators applauded him in the way they applauded the popular comedians. Was it the novelty, or was it mass hysteria? The crowd clapped and shouted in a transport of joy.

On the second day there was such a rush for places in the Circus that several people were squeezed or trampled to death in the corridors leading to the upper tiers. Special Police and secret agents, distributed among the audience, controlled the public. Once the performance had started, no one was allowed to leave the Circus. Some women gave birth to babies during the show. Other people pre­tended to faint and were taken away on stretchers. In the great Senate box, General Vespasian, who had eaten too much, fell asleep while Nero was singing his grand aria. Amidst the silence and suspense, at the very moment when the Emperor was warbling his most delicate notes, a deep snoring was heard. To save Vespasian, already invested with the Consular dignity, his friends signed a humble petition; but Vespasian had to keep away from Court for some time.

Nero won all the prizes. With a hint of pique he told Petronius, “Now I am really popular.”

IV

Poppaea was worried. She was again with child; but the Emperor was neglecting her. The hope of giving Nero an heir was no longer enough to make her feel secure. She paid many visits to the magician Joah. Many a night a plain litter was brought to the side-door of her private apartments and her favourite lady-in-waiting whispered the address to the head-bearer. The carriers lifted the palanquin and started on their soft-footed run, rapidly disappearing through the alleys that descended from the Palatine to the Jewish quarter across the River. The head-bearer 'knocked at a door that was promptly opened and the Empress, wrapped in ,a dark cloak, swiftly crossed the sombre threshold, while the litter took its stand round the comer, and men of the Imperial Bodyguard in plain clothes hovered round the magician’s house.

This soothsayer Joah, a Jew, had been much in fashion in the last years of Claudius’s reign, for it was said that he performed miracles. But it was a risky thing to be too famous or popular under Nero and the shrewd Jew was now content with a small but select clientele Of wealthy ladies, among whom was the Empress. And of late, Poppaea came more and more to consult the magician Joah, for all he had foretold for her had come to pass. Now Poppaea stood in the room full of shadows, hung with panels embroidered with strange symbols, and she bent her pretty head before the tall and lean magician, whose white beard and bright eyes gleamed in the mysterious darkness. Joah looked at her a long time, then he said:

“I have the answer to what you are going to ask me.” The magician placed a hand upon the Empress’s shoulder, and at his bidding she lay herself down on the floor. And she heard strange noises coming from the earthen floor; shrieks and cries that seemed to come from the bowels of the Earth. Slowly Poppaea unveiled her eyes, and saw that the room was filled with a vapour that smelled of pungent spices. Upon the floor great spiders’ webs glim­mered in the dim light and the magician stepped between them and halted before an altar. There he stood a while, looking dark and gaunt, murmuring words that she could not understand. At last he stepped back, noiselessly, and walked around Poppaea three times, drawing around her a white circle of light. With a rod he drew a cross, which meant the balance of the Universe. Poppaea covered her eyes once more, for she could not bear the glare of that circle of light. The magician ordered her to hold a small sheaf of com with her left hand, and with her right hand to count three times twenty-seven grains. Poppaea did as she was told, and detached and counted with her lips twenty-seven grains, and then again and again, dropping them in a small cup made of copper. The magician took the cup and poured the grains into a silver bowl, which he filled with water from a ewer, and handed it to Poppaea, ordering her to drink it. She lifted the bowl, inside which the grains of com sparkled like diamonds and when she took a sip from it, the water seemed to bum her through.

The magician took the bowl from her hands. He made passes with his fingers around her throat. Then he said, “Take heed! A new child will be your death.”

Back at the Palace, Poppaea brooded over this prophecy. It was indeed a terrifying one. She had prayed so ardently to be given another child, to replace tire lost one. She remembered Nero’s tender joy when their little daughter was born, although he was disappointed that it was not a son to bring up as an heir. How could a new child be her death? Would she die in childbirth? Or would Nero tire of her during her pregnancy?

V

Only a few weeks went by. One day, long after sunset, the Emperor came back from a chariot race, slightly inebriated, for he had paused in the paddock to drink with the winners and chat with the fashionable courtesans.

The Emperor entered his private apartment with an unsteady gait, leaning heavily on the arms of two slaves. The Empress was seated there, awaiting his return. She looked at him with disgust, and let an insult escape her lips. She mocked him for playing the actor and the charioteer. She mentioned her former husband Otho. She gave vent to her jealousy and her present ennui.

The moment was ill-chosen. The Emperor looked at Poppaea nonplussed. Then, with a drunken gesture, he jabbed her in the stomach with his sandalled foot.

During the night Poppaea died of a haemorrhage.

VI

Poppaea’s death threw Nero into extreme depression. Instead Of burning the corpse, in Roman fashion, Nero ordered that it should be embalmed in the Egyptian style. He gave Poppaea the funeral of an Eastern Queen. He himself recited the funeral oration from the rostra in the Forum, and with touching words, he recalled the memory of his little daughter who had died in the cradle.

For days Rome was full of the funeral’s pomp and around the bier were burnt all the perfumes that Arabia could produce in one whole year. Poppaea was buried in the Augusteum, the tomb of the Caesars.

Nero was most sincere in his grief for Poppaea. He regretted her as one regrets a source of joy that can be found no more. Someone mentioned a woman who was extraordinarily like Poppaea. Nero ordered her to come to the Palace, and endeavoured to feel some passion for her. But it was not possible to recall a vanished charm, or to deceive the mysterious impulses of love.

In the midst of those sentimental complications another political plot was discovered. The Praetor Sosianus was named. It seemed almost a diversion from the grief of mourning Poppaea. Then an epidemic came as a change. Nearly thirty thousand died of the plague in the course of a few weeks. Every house had its dead. Funerals filled the streets and from the Campus Martius the smoke of the pyres spread a pall over the City. At the same time storms and tempests, winds and lightnings caused disasters everywhere. A Knight, by the name of Cossianus, fell ill with a disease called the lichen. It had occurred only once in Rome, under Tiberius; a terrible disease, which showed in the face, beginning under the chin. The populace called it mentagre because it gave a ridiculous appearance to the victim’s chin. Strangely enough, the lichen spared the slaves, the middle-classes and the common people. It was truly an aristocratic disease. Cossianus, sick with lichen, was a great friend of Nero. The Emperor, sorry to lose him, ordered his doctor to try all means to save him. The doctor replied that the only physician who could cure lichen was in Alexandria. Nero gave orders that a fast galley should sail for Egypt to fetch this physician. But when the Egyptian doctor arrived, he gave Cossianus an “heroic” medicine, made with cantharides. The patient died the same day.

But when the epidemic abated, the treason trials were started again, this time against Senator Thrasea. Thrasea’s fault was that he led such an irreproachable life that the Senate could find no alternative but to be on his side. There is nothing worse than to be a champion of uprightness in lax times. There was therefore only one avenue open—to make Thrasea unpleasing to the Emperor. As usual, Tigellinus hit upon a clever idea.

King Tiridates had just arrived in Rome. Son of Arsacides, King of the Parthians, Tiridates had come to Rome from the Middle East to humble himself at Nero Caesar’s knees. He had come to seal the peace with Rome. There should be no more wars in the Empire. Tiridates’s journey from far-away Persia was a Royal Progress. In all countries the people applauded his passage; hospitality was showered upon the Prince and his suite. Tiridates had declined to travel by sea, for he belonged to the Magi, and his religion forbade him to spit into the sea or defile the waters with his excrements. He merely consented to cross the Hellespont, for the crossing was very short and he could do it without committing an impious act.

The Imperial Government had appointed Vivianus, son-in-law of General Corbulo, as official escort with a force of cavalry. Tiridates was bringing with him the Princes of his family and all his train of three thousand Parthian horsemen. Next to him rode his Queen, her head enclosed in a golden helmet, the lowered visor hiding her face. Notwithstanding the contribution of all the Provinces, the entertainment of Tiridates cost the Treasury the equivalent of nearly twenty thousand pounds a day.

The journey took nine months, from the farthest lands of Persia, always on horseback, by easy stages. When the procession reached the soil of Italy it was met by the Imperial carriages, sent by the Emperor; and Tiridates, instead of entering Rome direct, was first taken to Naples, to pay obeisance to the Emperor who was there on holiday. As a matter of fact, this was a little ruse of Nero’s, meant to show the Senate and the people that the first homage was due to the Emperor, not to Rome.

When he appeared before Nero, Tiridates greeted him in Oriental fashion. He bent his knee, called the Emperor his Lord and gave adoration. Nevertheless, he refused to discard his sword, but to show that he meant no ill, he asked that the sword be nailed to the scabbard.

Nero, with his taste for the theatrical, found that ges­ture much to his taste. Accordingly, he asked Tiridates to follow him to Rome, and entertained him en route. The cost of those entertainments was enormous. The gladia­tors were paid the highest fees, arms were of the best, animals and beasts were brought from Africa and India, beautiful curtains covered the open theatres, sumptuous refreshments were offered to the guests and expensive trinkets and gifts were given away in lotteries at the end of the shows. The luxury was such that in the foyer of the theatres were exhibited statues and portraits of the most famous gladiators and even models of the rarest beasts to be seen in the games.

Tiridates was so impressed by the show at Pozzuoli that he felt it incumbent on him to take part in person in that great feast in his honour and calling for his bow and arrows, from his seat in the Imperial box he transfixed the wild beasts as they entered the arena and planted banderillas in two bulls. The courtiers whispered that he meant to remind the Emperor and the Cabinet of the Parthians’ skill with such arms.

When at last the Imperial train approached Rome, the people and the Senate came outside the walls to meet the Emperor and his Royal guest. All the citizens were dressed in white; and the garlanded houses and decorated palaces made a great sight. Before the temples frank­incense smoked in great burners and the statues of the Gods were dressed in magnificent clothes.

But the weather was foul. It rained continuously. There was no chance of showing the Armenian King to the people. Nero was much annoyed.

At last the rains stopped. The Palace was at once bustling with orders. Marvellous games were organized at Pompey’s Theatre. The entire interior was renovated. The scenic arch was richly gilded, as well as the edges of the tiers of the auditorium. The great canopy above the public was of purple cloth, embroidered in the centre with the Emperor dressed as Apollo riding his chariot through the Heavens. A splendid buffet was provided after the show and Nero sang to a select audience. This performance so astounded Tiridates that a few days later he let the Emperor guess his feelings by saying, “You have in General Corbulo a superior servant.” But Nero misunder­stood the innuendo, and showered upon Tiridates presents of immense value.

Yet, in the midst of the rejoicing and splendour, a crime was brewing. Senator Thrasea had once more been for­bidden to appear with the Senate at the Emperor’s reception. By this Nero meant to show Tiridates that he was no less powerful in Rome than an Eastern King in his palace. Thrasea wrote to the Emperor to ask what offence had he committed to deserve such a snub. Nero opened the letter eagerly, for he hoped to find in it some words of fear or regret that would diminish Thrasea’s character, but there were none. Whereupon the Emperor called a meeting of the Senate in the temple of Venus Genitrix.

The fact was that during the last few years Thrasea had altogether abstained from taking part in the Senate’s sittings, openly saying that that noble assembly was re­duced to a farce. Nevertheless his friends enjoined him to attend this very special meeting and avoid an open provocation. But the following day two Cohorts of Praetorian Guards occupied the beautiful temple of Venus, that Julius Caesar had built of white marble in the centre of the Forum. Troops lined the square and a motley crowd of apparently idle citizens took positions around the temple, carrying swords under their togas. Indeed, the Senators had to force their way through to enter the building.

Fearing that Thrasea might not attend, Nero decided to send his Imperial Message to the Senate by the hand of the Quaestor. Thus both the Emperor and the accused kept away. In his message the Emperor mentioned no name, but bitterly deplored the indifference of certain Senators who neglected public affairs for the pleasure of their gardens. The orator Marcellus was ready to act as formal accuser, and Tigellinus had rallied his son-in-law Capito, who had a personal grudge against Thrasea for having supported the people of Cilicia in their charges of malversation against him. Tigellinus had drawn up a list of charges against Thrasea: he had walked out of the Senate during the debate on Agrippina’s death; he had not been present at Poppaea’s funeral, and lastly, when Nero was afflicted by a bad cold which threatened to spoil his golden voice, Thrasea had not taken part in the sacri­ficial offerings for the Emperor’s recovery.

The indictment was conducted in a vulgar manner. Thrasea was summarily sentenced, with liberty to choose whichever form of death he preferred. Thrasea was at his house, calmly walking with his friend the philosopher Demetrius, discussing with him upon the nature of the soul. The Quaestor arrived, carrying the intimation of arrest by order of the Senate. Thrasea met the Magistrate under the shady portico of his house. He read with composure the Senatus-Consulte, then, entering his private room with Demetrius, tendered his arm to his doctor. As the blood gushed out and fell upon the floor, Thrasea turned to the Quaestor, “Let us offer a libation to Jupiter Liberator. Young man, you have been born in an age when it is desirable to strengthen the soul with an example of fortitude...”

As the family was not allowed to give Thrasea a solemn funeral, the images of his ancestors could not precede him in the Forum and be placed around the speaker’s tribune, nor rest upon curule chairs during the obituary oration. His son-in-law Helvidius, himself sentenced to exile, helped to prepare a pyre, and a few undertakers assisted without pomp at the cremation. The pyre of the staunchest die-hard burned silently during the night, like an abandoned house. Then the widowed Arria, her daughter and Thrasea’s son-in-law collected the ashes and enclosed them in an urn, which was hastily walled up with the lamp that the Romans believed would burn for ever with the spirit of the dead. Towards dawn, after a night spent in those sad duties, Thrasea’s family were surprised to hear an immense noise, the voice of the crowd. It was the populace acclaiming the Emperor who was going to the Forum to crown Tiridates King of Armenia.

Five Cohorts were drawn up on parade in the Forum. The Emperor arrived and seated himself upon an ivory chair on the rostra, in triumphal dress, against a glitter­ing background of standards and ensigns. Tiridates advanced towards him on a stage erected for the purpose and threw himself at Nero’s feet. The Emperor raised him quickly with his right hand, and kissed him. Then Tiridates spoke his petition in humble terms, which an interpreter repeated in Latin. In solemn words Nero replied that he was giving to Tiridates the crown of Armenia. Whereupon Tiridates was made to sit on a stool low enough to allow the Emperor to take away the simple tiara and replace it with the diadem, which was the cap worn by the Persian Kings, high and stiff, encircled around the head by a golden ribbon upon a blue ground embroidered with white dots. The acclamations of the multitude filled the sky.

When the coronation was over, the guests were asked to remain in their places. Nero took from his head the laurel crown, and ordered two bearers to carry it to the Capitol and to go and shut the temple of Janus. “A new Augustan peace,” he said, “is now rising upon the Empire.”

VII

One of the reasons that had prompted Nero to show Tiridates such magnificence and generosity was his ardent desire to be initiated into the secrets of magic. In his present position, outside and above human society, having attained the peak of absolute power, yet surrounded by dangers obscure and mysterious, Nero felt the dizziness of both pride and fear. He had only a vague idea of Persian magic which employed the spheres, the air and the stars, lamps, water, basin and hatchet. Unable to restrain his curiosity, Nero asked Tiridates to initiate him in those secrets.

Tiridates would only have been too glad to discharge with some magic the debt for the crown of Armenia; but neither himself nor his priests could infuse into the Emperor any mysterious power, nor open to him the mysteries of Persian theurgy. The priests that Tiridates had brought in his train were unable to explain their failure. They told the Emperor that Nature refused to disclose her secrets to those who had red spots on their body, but Nero had no defect or mark whatever upon his body. Nero suspected that Oriental magic was merely a highly perfected art of poisoning. However, he added one more gift to Tiridates by granting him the right to rebuild the city of Artaxata that Corbulo had destroyed; and lent him a number of architects and engineers. Later on, Tiridates tried to attract to his kingdom a greater number of Roman architects and engineers; but the Governor was wise enough to give a frontier-visa only to those who had the Imperial permit.

Tiridates made the return journey by sea—the reli­gious taboos about not polluting the sea counted only on an outward journey! He visited Athens and the other great cities of Greece; and once home, he rebuilt Artaxata and called it Neronia.

Nero, still hankering after the Persian magic, then invited Tiridates’s brother, Vologese, to come to Rome, but Vologese answered that he should consider it a rare honour to receive the Emperor in his kingdom. Nero considered the reply an insult, but circumstances at home made him limit his defiance to a show of the flag.

Soon, however, it became necessary to reopen the Temple of Janus, for the Jewish war had broken out. On this occasion Nero showed great commonsense, for not­withstanding his annoyance with Vespasian for the poor opinion that excellent General had shown of the Emperor’s singing, he entrusted him with the conduct of the war; and Vespasian, already famous for his victories in Britain, left for Palestine with his son Titus.

But Nero was on the quest for magic. One day he asked: “Who is this man who claims that he can fly?”

It was Simon Magus, the cleverest impostor of the time. Contemporary of Jesus, Simon was now a man of ripe age. He had come to Rome several years before from the Province of Samaria in Judaea, accompanied by a woman named Helen, a slave he had purchased in Tyre. The woman helped him in his magic rites, acting as a kind of receptionist and assistant during the sittings that he gave to Roman ladies. Under Emperor Claudius, Simon Magus had had a hand in the sedition that troubled the Jewish district across the Tiber. Under Nero he helped to turn against the Christians the accusation of having caused the fire of Rome. With the growing bands of Galileans, he did not altogether deny the divinity of Jesus, but he claimed to be himself the re-incarnation of God the Father. And with his fashionable clients he conveniently mixed all the Gods. Indeed, he pretended that his woman Helen was no less than the re-incarnation of Minerva, while he himself was a child of Jupiter. To the Christians he administered baptisms, and made them see a flame floating upon a basin of water. To the Syrians he had presented this woman Helen as Barbelo, the daughter of Baal; for the philosophically-minded Greeks the same woman was one of the Eons, the embodiment of Intelligence, the go-between spirits between God and Man, of whom the Neo-Platonists of Alexandria claimed to have determined the number and nature.

But in Rome, Simon was cunning enough not to imi­tate the Christian Apostles, who addressed themselves to the common people. He looked instead to the great and powerful. He had secured the patronage of Agrippa, son of Herod and of Mariamne the Great. Tiberius had thrown him into jail, but Caligula had set him free and presented him with golden chains as heavy as the iron ones that Tiberius had tied round his ankles. His audacity, and some extraordinary feats he accomplished by conjuring, made him pass for a supernatural genius.

After the failure of Tiridates’s priests to initiate him into Magic, Nero sent for Simon. He had heard the magician boast that he could fly. Nero challenged him to fly and placed his purse at the magician’s disposal for the undertaking.

The great experiment took place in the small Neronian Circus. Simon had constructed an apparatus resembling the mythical one of Icarus. He opened his wings upon a platform higher than the highest range of seats, and courageously jumped into emptiness. But after flapping his great wings for a few seconds, Simon crashed to the ground in front of the Imperial box. The ostiarii dragged away the body of the Magus, bespattered with blood.

Simon had not died of his great fall, for the apparatus lessened the crash; but ashamed by his failure, he soon afterwards threw himself from the roof of his house, and made an end of himself. Nero angrily told his friends, “Neither the astrologers nor the Magi are able to teach me what I am anxious to learn; yet the shabby Apostles from Galilee pretend to teach me what I do not care to know.”

VIII

Soon afterwards the order went out to throw Peter in prison.

So far, neither Peter nor Mark had been arrested. Peter was lying ill in the house provided by the Lady Pomponia Graecina, the Briton wife of General Pomponius. From his sick-bed Peter dictated to the scribe Silvanus several letters to be dispatched to Paul and to the heads of the churches in Greece and in the East, informing them of the persecutions in Rome and exhorting them to hold fast to their faith.

But Pomponia’s servants brought the news that the Guards were searching for Simon Peter. So it was decided that at nightfall he should set out alone, meeting a carriage some little distance from Rome, to be conveyed to a surer hiding place.

An hour before his departure Peter told Mark of the time when Jesus was arrested and he had followed Him to the Palace of the High Priest, and how he had waited there through the night, sick with fear; and in turn two women had questioned him and twice he had denied all knowledge of Jesus, and again he had denied it when questioned a third time. The memory of that denial had followed him through the years, and it was now in his mind, in this lonely hour.

Later, a solitary man in disguise, leaning upon a staff, walked along the Appian Way. But no sooner had he left behind the Capuan Gate than he saw a vision of Jesus. Peter looked up in surprise, and asked: “Quo vadis, Domine?” And the shade of Jesus answered: “I am going to Rome to be crucified a second time.” And so Peter wept as a child at the feet of the shadow upon the flag-stones of the Appian Way; and then he turned and went back again to Pomponia’s house. In spite of his seventy years he was now radiant and happy as a young boy. That very evening he gave himself up to the Guards, and on the morrow was taken before a Magistrate and summarily condemned.

Two days later Simon Peter hung from a cross in the Vatican Gardens. Mark, Linus and a veiled woman watched from afar; then at dawn they collected the ashes and the bones of the first Apostle, and buried them in a catacomb not far from the Circus, in the Vatican Valley.

Then Silvanus the scribe wrote down a report of the end of Peter, and hid it in the catacombs outside the City.

IX

The curse of the Caesars was their inability to produce an heir. Julius Caesar had no heir and left the Empire to his adoptive son Octavianus Augustus; Augustus had no son from Livia and she could find no better way than poison to secure the Throne for Tiberius, her son by her first marriage. Tiberius left the succession to his nephew Caligula; Caligula, also without any heir, was succeeded by his uncle Claudius, and although Claudius had a son, Britannicus, he did not come to the Throne, for Agrippina had prepared the way for her son Nero.

Young and strong and able-bodied, Nero could not believe that he would have no son. Being now a widower, he turned his eyes upon Antonia, Claudius’s other daughter, and offered her the chair that had been occupied by Poppaea.

In Rome some whispered that Antonia had a good memory and could not forgive the man who had poisoned her brother and done away with her sister; but in the Palace many took up Nero’s defence. Britannicus, after all, might have been poisoned by Agrippina to clear away all obstacles from her son’s path, and as for Octavia, the poor girl was a bore.

However, Antonia refused the offer of the Imperial hand, which was, to say the least, tactless on her part. At a Privy Council, Tigellinus recalled that Piso had once offered Antonia his name and surely she was conversant with the old plot. Antonia’s days were cut short.

The Imperial hand was therefore offered to Statilia Messalina, widow of Vestinus. She accepted with pleasure. At a party at Petronius’s it was murmured that the pleasure was not so great for Nero, for Statilia had long been his mistress.

Yet no other woman could efface the memory of Poppaea. Her memory haunted Nero like a heady and clinging perfume. Nowhere else could he find the same delicate beauty, the same charm, the same intoxication. He tried to forget her; he plunged into new attractions and pleasures. He could find nothing but lassitude and regret.

It was during one of those moods, that no pleasure could assuage, that the Emperor met Sporus.

Sporus was a most remarkable young man, whose features strangely recalled Poppaea’s. The boy was somewhat broader than Poppaea, but otherwise he re­called her entire person in a startling way—the same forehead, the hair, the freckles about the nostrils, the stubborn changeable mouth... People said that a surgeon had performed upon Sporus a clever operation, which had changed his sex. Sure it was that when Tigellinus introduced Sporus to Nero, he had been mutilated—in fact, he could pass for a woman. And he was the image of Poppaea.

Nero married the boy.

And Rome did not protest! After this abysmal folly there was no longer balance or restraint in Nero’s life. Sporus was renamed Sabina, in memory of Poppaea. He was made to wear the dresses and the jewellery of the dead Empress and he was given a lady-in-waiting, Calvia Crispinilki.

Yet nothing could cure Nero’s spleen. Strange and cruel appetites seized him. And one night he dressed in a lion’s skin, and abandoned himself to bestial experiences upon young girls tied to marble pillars in his Gardens.

Now the Emperor usually resided in the small pavilion in the Gardens of Servilius, on the road to Ostia. He preferred this pavilion to the splendours of the Golden House. In the Gardens of Servilius he had erected his finest statues, and the river that flowed below made it easy to slip out of Rome unnoticed, for visits to Anzio or Baiae.

But the Emperor was ill. In physicians he had little confidence. At the beginning of his reign he had opened on the Esquiline Hill a School of Medicine and appointed as Head Physician a follower of Hippocrates, named Andromachus, who accompanied by his students made regular visits to sick persons in the poorer districts. But Nero had not much faith in his College of Physicians. Besides, Rome’s physicians were split into many schools and factions. There were the Methodics, who ascribed all diseases to harmful secretions, and effected their cures through dieting and internal applications of cold and hot water. There was the new Sicilian School led by Athenaeus of Attala, which was called the Pneumatic School, and proclaimed that the soul was all-important and if the soul was treated the health of the body would ensue.

Tired of his Physician-in-Ordinary who could only order him a strict diet and forbid apples because they made the voice harsh and pears because they caused congestion of the chest, and no more peaches because they dissipated vital fluids around the heart, Nero favoured the Pneumatic School because in their kind of psycho­analytical methods he could see some of the magical practices which held such a fascination for him.

Perhaps his illness was psychological rather than physical. One day Nero sent for Athenaeus himself. The head of the Pneumatic School was a mild and smiling Greek with a long beard and magnetic eyes. He looked intently at the Imperial invalid. Then, he led him to the couch, closed Nero’s eyes with his fingers, and ordered him to breathe deeply through his nose and asked him to hold the breath and count up to seven and release the breath through the mouth very slowly. Nero did as he was told, and felt a kind of relief and a feeling of greater calmness. After a few visits, Athenaeus left with the Emperor a number of small tablets upon which in brightly coloured letters were inscribed a few words intended to buoy up the Emperor’s spirits. On the first tablet, in blue and gold, that were the colours of calm and peace, there was written “I am very calm.” The Emperor was in­structed to lie on his back and gaze intently at this tablet. Then he should pass to another tablet, upon which, in red and blue, was written “I feel very strong.” Then he would gaze at lilac and yellow letters: “Apollo is smiling upon me”; and the next tablet of pure orange and green said: “ I am a great poet.” This last tablet gave Nero a feeling of intense joy. He held it in his hands and stared at it a long time: “ I am a great poet.”

Athenaeus’s therapy worked wonders. The Emperor confided to his friends that his was a strange illness. It was, he said, the disease of all poets and artists, the fear of ennui and of death. Only in Art could he find an escape. And he worked again at his poems and his singing with renewed pleasure and energy. Once more at Court the only topic was music, artistic perfection and the marvels of Art. At times, the Emperor spoke of becoming a new Alexander and of his intention to extend the Empire to the far-away Indies. For a century in Rome they had thought of it, but now the idea was again taking shape. The Imperial General Staff received orders to work out the plans of a campaign. The Finance Minister said that the money for the campaign could be easily raised. Only the Generals dared to point out that nothing could be done till Judaea was brought to heel, the Province that lay athwart the route to the East and was a festering sore. But the Emperor brushed aside all objec­tions. His campaign, he said, with a mysterious smile around his lips, would not be a fighting one—he would conquer the East with his poetical Art.

At that time Nero’s appearance was changing in an extraordinary way, like the appearance of an actor who had assumed a new role. He had become very fat, his neck seemed enormous and his fleshy face had lost the former boyish appearance. It looked harder, like the face of an Oriental despot. It was not an ugly face; but a mask seemed to rest over the once gay visage. It was now like the face of a God, but a God radiating an aura of egotism and self-assurance.

And he became strangely superstitious. If he sneezed about midday, slaves had to run to the sun-dial to sec whether it was already past noon, for if one sneezed after noon it was a very bad omen. If his toga caught on a chair or if he stumbled on entering a room he would not leave the Palace that day. One morning he ran bare­headed into the temple of Castor, whispered a question into the ear of the wooden figures and rushed out into the street to listen to the words of the first passer-by; in the accidental words he would find the answer to his question. One day he was resting on a stone bench in Vesta’s temple and when he tried to rise he staggered and was held back by the fold of his cloak. Petronius was with him and, leaning upon his friend’s arm the Emperor asked: “What does it portend? Am I to die?” And he recalled that it was the second time that a similar accident had happened to him in the temple of Vesta.

But a few days later, Ambassadors arrived from the Greek cities, bringing to the Emperor the crowns decreed to him in their dramatic contests. Nero received the Ambassadors with much pleasure, without making them wait for an audience, and he admitted them to his table. Some of the envoys, emboldened by the Emperor’s charming manners, during dinner begged him to allow them to enjoy his celestial voice. Nero was only too glad to oblige. The guests applauded warmly. Nero turned to his friends and pointed out how truly the Greeks were connoisseurs of good music and poetry! Suddenly he spoke again of his desire to visit Greece and take part in the artistic contests. The envoys Were somewhat taken aback, and muttered that they were sure that Athens and Olympia would look forward to such a great honour.

It was at that time that the beaux esprits of Rome were much amused by an incident that sent the poet Cornutus into exile. The respected master of Persius and Lucan was asked by the Emperor what he thought of the idea of composing a History of Rome in poetry and dividing the subject into four hundred books. Mildly Cornutus answered that it was difficult to imagine how anyone would ever read four hundred books. “Why,” said Nero, “has not Chrissipus composed a greater number of books” “Yes,” answered Cornutus, “but the difference is that Chrisippus’s books are useful and help to improve the customs of the people.”

X

One day Acte went to see the Emperor and spoke to him about the Christians—such a weary subject! She was no longer the humble slave, the devoted mistress, whose frail beauty had the perfume of Arcadian violets. Life had moved on for all. Nero was surprised to see before him a woman of cold beauty, of pure eyes, of plain dress; a woman who was looking at him almost with estrangement. One should never look back at the love of yesteryear.

Acte mentioned the fine, sound philosophy and teaching of Paul of Tarsus. She was, Acte said, under his personal protection. Paul? Was he the same man Paul who was so troublesome with his long diatribes, a kind of advocate gone wrong? And was he not at present under arrest ?

After Acte’s departure Nero asked for the list of the prisoners of State. The Praetor Helius laid the list before the Emperor. This man Paul of Tarsus, he said, was a strange prisoner; it was, in fact, not clear what the charge was about. He was charged as one of the leaders of the Galileans, the treasonable persons who had set fire to Rome. And if he was one of their chiefs he should be charged with treason and sentenced to death like all the others.

But when the man came before Helios for examination, Helios was somewhat troubled with the nobility of his manner and the eloquence of his speech. He was more like an ancient patrician than a provincial traitor. Moreover, this man Paul was a Roman citizen. It would be for the Emperor to decide the issue.

Paul was therefore entered for appearance before the Imperial Tribunal.

Some months earlier, Linus and Pudens had met Paul near the Three Taverns. Paul had gone to live in the house of Linus 'for a while, instructing brethren to set out for other lands and carry the word. Before long, however, news was brought to the house that Alexander the coppersmith, who had his shop near the Capuan Gate, had denounced the presence of Paul in Rome to Helius the Tribune, and indeed soon afterwards Paul was arrested. He was a Roman citizen and Helius committed him to trial in the Praetorium.

While Paul was in prison awaiting trial, his friend Luke —for whom the Lady Pomponia had obtained a permit to visit his friend each day—tried to persuade him to invite his “son” Timothy to come to Rome. Many hours Paul hesitated, and he refused to dictate the letter to Luke; but at last with pained and reluctant fingers he wrote the letter to Timothy himself. “Paul, an Apostle of Jesus the Christ by the will of God according to the promise of life which is in Christ Jesus—to Timothy, my beloved son, grace, mercy and peace from God the Father and our Lord Christ Jesus. Greatly desiring to see thee, being mindful of thy tears, that I may be filled with joy—” Day after day Paul toiled at the writing of that letter, for the fingers, being stiff with rheumatism, could only shape a few sentences each day. Luke might have written the whole of the letter, if Paul had agreed to dictate it, in little more than two hours; but Paul felt he must write it with his hand. And when at last he neared the end of the letter, he bade Timothy to come speedily to Rome and bring Mark with him, and he asked for a cloak lightly discarded in the heat of summer and which was now his great need. So when Luke came at sunrise to visit him in prison, and again entreated Paul to accept his cloak, Paul proudly told him that in a short while Mark and Timothy would bring all he needed from Troas, find he handed Luke the letter written with such toil and pain.

Before the day of the trial, Luke reminded Paul that they had still no tidings of Timothy, and added: “The Gospel of Jesus as recorded by His servant Paul has not been written, and those sayings and doings of thine will be lost to the world.”

“Write out thy heart, Luke, and all that God would have men know will be recorded.”

On the eve of the trial Paul sent a message: “Bid Luke to set down a faithful record of our journeys and all that knowledge he has of Christ.”

Towards the evening the Guards led Paul to the baths, that he shall be dean and decent to appear before Nero Caesar. Afterwards, in the darkness of his cell, Paul listened for a while to the hum of the City; then he slept easily, like a child.

Caesar’s Court was crowded, all the privileged people filling the hall, eager to see a man who was said to be different from all other men. When the prisoner was brought in, he blinked at the brilliant robes of the Knights, patricians and freedmen, and the glittering breastplates of the Guards.

The Emperor entered and took his seat, smiling and waving to the public. Great applause welcomed him. Then the proceedings were opened. Witnesses were called; and again Alexander the coppersmith recounted the riots caused by Paul in every city he had entered in Asia, Syria and Greece. Other witnesses testified against the character and life of the Galileans.

The Prosecution summed up: The man Paul of Tarsus was the head, or one of the heads, of a conspiracy which was spreading from Judaea to all the Provinces. The Galileans called themselves followers of a Jewish rebel named Jesus or Christ, who was crucified in Jerusalem at the time of Emperor Tiberius, under Governor Pontius Pilate at the request of the Jewish Sanhedrin. These Galileans did not believe in any God, even less in the Divine Majesty of Rome embodied in the August Person of Caesar. It was ,a fact proven at previous trials that during the Great Fire the impiety of these Galileans was such that they sang ribald songs of joy when the temple of Hercules and the temple of the Moon crashed in flames.

Nero, who had been glancing now and then at Paul, had a feeling that he had seen the prisoner before. Sud­denly the Emperor remembered the circumstances of his encounter with Paul, and said, “It is hard to believe that the prisoner could be a party to such a list of crimes.” At such Paul cried out, “O Caesar, I deny them all. They are lies!”

It was out of order for a prisoner to speak without being addressed, but the Emperor looked again at the prisoner and hung his head in thought. Nero was now remembering Paul’s words when he had met him one night returning from his revels and they had walked together beside the River, and Paul had spoken to him of things and deeds that sounded so beautiful that might have turned into poems.

But the Prosecutor went on: “The prisoner is a magi­cian. It is said that his sect practises dreadful mysteries. It is now a public fact that one of the chiefs had confessed at his trial that Rome was set on fire by the magic of their God.”

The prisoner was asked to exculpate himself. He said, “We Galileans, have preached only love and charity, making them the rule of our life. We have taught obedience to our rulers. The Man we call the Christ was the Son of the true God and He walked the Earth in the guise of a man recommending obedience to Caesar, bringing hope to the humble and the poor, announcing the comfort of the resurrection of the soul in life eternal after death.”

At this the Emperor rose and withdrew. To those near him he said, “This Jew says that the dead will live on. Is there a life beyond the grave, a life of shades such as we see at times in our dreams?”

The Emperor seemed in great agitation. Tigellinus realized that evil dreams had again troubled Nero’s nights. “Do not believe in Heaven or Hell, O Divine! The Gods are old and gouty. The dead sleep for ever.”

But the Emperor was obdurate. “I believe that this Jew, honest man or necromancer as he may be, cursed me one night two years before the fire, when I encountered him and walked with him by the Tiber. He speaks well and commands attention.” With this Nero returned to the Court and the trial was resumed.

Paul was motioned to continue and he told of the appearance of the apparition of Christ on the road to Damascus. And he spoke of his encounter with the Master, and of what it had meant to him and of what it might mean to all men.

Suddenly Nero put a question to him, “You call yourself a seer. Tell me, then, shall Caesar reign over the Empire of the Dead? ”

Paul answered boldly, “Caesar’s mind is high and noble, and he will understand when I say that Caesar will not reign over an empire beyond the grave, for there the first shall be the last and the last first.”

From the Court someone shouted, “Shame! Shame!” The Emperor looked at the prisoner intently. Then he murmured to the judges, “This man is like all the Galileans”; and he rose from his seat and left the Court with a frown on his brow.

After the sentence Paul was taken to the Tullianum to await execution. A rope was tied round his waist, and he was lowered into the dark, icy cell. The Tullianum was also known as the Sepulchre.

Some days later, early in the morning, Paul was drawn out with a hook, and was marched out of the City. Now Timothy had arrived in Rome, and he awaited the depar­ture together with Luke and Linus. The Centurion was a kindly man, and permitted the aged prisoner and the young man to embrace, and allowed his two friends to escort him to the place of execution. So the little procession marched down the Sacred Way, round the Pala­tine and the Aventine, and out by the Ostian Gate. They came to a hollow between the hills, where the block was ready. The Centurion allowed Paul to withdraw a little way and pray. Then Paul returned to the Centurion and said, “I am ready.” Two guards led the prisoner to the block; and swiftly, with the great sword, the head was severed from the shoulders of Paul of Tarsus—with the sword, because he was a Roman citizen.

The body lay all day in the charnel pit. Late at night, by the light of the moon, four men with lanterns came to the pit, gave a piece of silver to the watchman, and they wrapped the body and head of Paul of Tarsus in the old cloak that Timothy had dutifully brought from Troas. The four men were Luke, Mark, Timothy and Onesiphorus. Then they carried their burden to the garden of the Lady Pomponia Graccina, whom they called Lucina. She and her women washed the body with spices and oil, and laid it in a tomb. To the end of her days the Lady Pomponia from Britain watched over Paul’s grave, and no Gentile knew of her secret treasure; and few Christians were aware that Paul did lie there. Upon this place is now the great Basilica of St. Paul’s-Outside- the-Walls.

Rome was quiet. The scribe at the Palace had nothing to enter in his records. Some days later, at dinner, Tigel­linus was saying, “The temple of Janus will soon be closed. The Jewish War will soon be over. Thanks to our Nero Caesar peace reigns throughout the Empire.”

“But it angers the patricians,” answered Petronius, “and the financiers.”

Nero looked round with an amused look. “I am certainly proud of it, my friends. Posterity will remember me as the second Augustus. But they will also remember me for my triumphs in Greece! We shall leave for Greece within three days, my friends!”

It was the end of the year 66.