Darkness and Dawn; Or, Scenes in the Days of Nero. An Historic Tale

by F. W. Farrar

  CHAPTER XVII

  _AMUSEMENTS OF AN EMPEROR_

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  EURIPIDES.

  ‘Esclave! apporte-moi des roses, Le parfum des roses est doux.’

  VICTOR HUGO.

  Among the pleasant distractions of the villa, the dilettantism ofliterature and art were not forgotten. Nero regarded it as one of hisserious occupations to practice singing and harp-playing. Afterwards,when his friends gathered round him, they would write verses, orrecite, or lounge on purple couches, listening to Epaphroditus as heread to them the last news from the teeming gossip of Rome. Satiresand scandalous stories often created a flutter of excitement inthe reception-rooms of the capital, and were keenly enjoyed by all,except those, often entirely innocent and worthy persons, who wereperfectly defenceless against these calumnies, and felt them likesparks of fire, or poisoned arrows rankling in the flesh.

  One morning, when the stay of the courtiers at the villa was drawingto a close, Epaphroditus announced to them that he had a sensationfor them of the first magnitude. The trifle which he would readto them was perhaps a little broad in parts, but he was sure thatCæsar would excuse it. It was called, he said, by a curious name,_Apokolokyntosis_. This was in truth a clever invention of thelibrarian himself, for he did not venture to mention its real title,which was _Ludus de morte Claudii Cæsaris_.

  ‘Apokolokyntosis?’[*3] asked Nero; ‘why, that means gourdification orpumpkinification! One has heard of deification, but what on earthdoes “gourdification” mean?’

  ‘Perhaps, Cæsar, in this instance it means the same thing,’ saidEpaphroditus; ‘but have I your permission to read it?’

  The guests--Lucan among them--settled themselves in easy positionsand listened. The reader had not finished a dozen sentences beforethey found that they were hearing the most daring and brilliantsatire which antiquity had as yet produced.

  It was a satire on the death of Claudius, and it was not long beforepeal after peal of astonished laughter rang from all the group.

  It began by a jesting refusal to quote any authority for the eventsthe writer was going to relate. If any one wanted evidence hereferred to the senator who had sworn that he had seen Drusillamounting to heaven, and would be equally ready to swear that hehad seen Claudius stalking thitherward with unequal steps along theAppian road, by which Augustus and Tiberius had also gone to heaven.

  ‘It was late autumn, verging on winter--it was, in fact, October 13.As for the hour, that was uncertain, but might be generally describedas noontide, when Claudius was trying to die. Since he found it hardto die, Mercury, who had always admired his learning, began to abuseone of the Fates for keeping him alive for sixty-three years. Whycould not she allow the astrologers to be right for once, who hadbeen predicting his demise every month? Yet, no wonder! for how couldthey cast the horoscope of a man so imperfect that he could hardly besaid to have ever been born? “I only meant,” pleads Clotho, “to keephim alive a little longer, till he had made all the rest of the worldRoman citizens. But since you order it, he shall die.” Thereupon sheopened a casket, and took out three spindles--one on which was woundthe life-thread of Claudius, and on the other two those of the twoidiots, Augurinus and Baba, both of whom, she said, should die aboutthe same time, that Claudius might have fitting company.

  ‘She said, and broke short the royal period of stolid life.’ Atthis point the author bursts into poetry, and describes how Lachesischooses a thread of gold instead of wool, and joyously weaves a webof surpassing loveliness. The life it represents is to surpass theyears of Tithonus and of Nestor. Phœbus comes and cheers her on hertask with heavenly song, bidding her weave on.

  ‘Let him whose thread you are weaving,’ he sings, ‘exceed the spaceof mortal life, for he is like me in countenance, like me in beauty,and not inferior in song or voice. He shall accord happy times to theweary, and shall burst the silence of the laws, like the rising ofthe morning or the evening star, or of rosy dawn at sunrise. Sucha Cæsar is at hand, such a Nero shall Rome now behold! his brightcountenance beams with attempered lustre, and his neck is lovelywith its flowing locks!’ So sang Apollo, and Lachesis did even morethan he required. Meanwhile, Claudius died while listening to thecomedians. Then, after a touch of inconceivable coarseness, thewriter adds, ‘What happened on earth I need not tell you, for we noneof us forget our own felicity, but I will tell you what happened inheaven.’ Jupiter is informed that a being is approaching who is tall,grey-haired, and looks menacing, because he shakes his head and dragshis right foot. He is asked to what country he belongs, and returnsan entirely unintelligible answer in no distinguishable dialect. AsHercules is a travelled person, Jupiter sends him to enquire to whatclass of human beings the new-comer appertains. Hercules had neverseen a portent like this, with a voice like that of a sea-monster,and thought that this must be his thirteenth labour; but, on looking,perceived that it was a sort of man, and addressed him in Greek.Claudius answers in Greek, and would have imposed on Hercules, hadnot Fever, who had accompanied Claudius, said, ‘He is not from Ilium;he is a genuine Gaul, born near Lyons, and, like a true Gaul, he tookRome.’ Claudius got into a rage at this, but no one could comprehendhis jargon; he had made a signal that Fever should be decapitated,and one might have thought that all present were his freedmen, for noone cared for what he said. Hercules addresses him in severe tones,and Claudius says, ‘You of all the gods, Hercules, ought to know meand support me, for I sat all July and August listening to lawyersbefore your temple.’ A discussion follows, and then Jupiter asksthe gods how they will vote. Janus thinks there are too many godsalready. Godhead has become cheap of late. He votes that no more menshall be made gods. Claudius, however, since he is akin to the divineAugustus, and has himself made Livia a goddess, seems likely to gainthe majority of votes; but Augustus rises and pleads against thisstrange candidate for godship with indignant eloquence. ‘This man,’he pleads, ‘caused the death of my daughter and my grand-daughter,the two Julias, and my descendant, L. Silanus. Also he has condemnedmany unheard. Jupiter, who has reigned so many years, has only brokenone leg--the leg of Vulcan--and has once hung Juno from heaven:but Claudius, inspired by female jealousies and the intrigues of avarletry of pampered freedmen, has killed his wife, Messalina, anda multitude of others. Who would believe that _they_ were gods, ifthey made this portent a god? Rather let him be expelled from Olympuswithin three days.’

  Accordingly, Mercury puts a rope round his neck, and drags himtowards Tartarus. On the way they meet a vast crowd, who all rejoiceexcept a few lawyers. It was, in fact, the funeral procession ofClaudius himself, and he wants to stop and look at it; but Mercurycovers him with a veil, that no one may recognize him, and drags himalong. Narcissus had preceded him by a shorter route, and Mercurybids the freedman hurry on to announce the advent of Claudius to theshades. Narcissus speedily arrives among them, gouty though he was,since the descent is steep, and shouts in a loud voice, ‘ClaudiusCæsar is coming.’ Immediately a crowd of shades shouts out, ‘We havefound him; let us rejoice!’ They advance to meet him--among themMessalina and her lover, Mnester the pantomime, and numbers of hiskinsmen whom he had put to death. ‘Why, all my friends are here!’exclaims Claudius, quite pleased. ‘How did you all get here?’ ‘Do_you_ ask us?’ said Pedo Pompeius; ‘you most cruel of men, whokilled us all?’ Pedo drags him before the judgment-seat of Æacus,and accuses him on the Cornelian law of having put to death thirtysenators, three hundred and fifteen Roman knights, and two hundredand twenty-one other persons. Claudius, terrified, looks round himfor an advocate, but does not see one. Publius Petronius wants toplead for him, but is not allowed to do so. He is condemned. Deepsilence falls on them all, as they wait to hear his punishment. Itis to be as endless as that of Sisyphus, Tantalus, and Ixion; it isto be a toil and a desire futile and frustrate and without end. Heis to throw dice forever in a dice-box without a bottom!

  No sooner said t
han done! Claudius began at once to seek the dice,which forever escaped him. Every time he attempted to throw them theyslipped through, and the throw, though constantly attempted, couldnever be performed.

  Then all of a sudden appears Caligula, and demands that Claudiusshould be recognised as his slave. He produces witnesses who swearthat they have seen Caligula scourge him and slap him, and beat him.He is assigned to Caligula, who hands him over to his freedman,Menander, to be his legal assessor.

  Such was this daring satire, of which we can hardly estimate theaudacity and wit--written as it was within a year of events whichthe Roman Senate and Roman people professed to regard as profoundlysolemn.

  Nero was convulsed with laughter throughout, and was equallydelighted by the insults upon his predecessor and the flattery ofhimself.

  When the speaker’s voice ceased, a burst of applause came from thelips of the hearers; and Lucan turned to the gratified Nero andrepeated the lines which described his radiant beauty, his song,and the brilliant prognostications of his coming reign.

  ‘Yes,’ said Otho; ‘that is true poetry--

  ‘“Such is our Cæsar; such, O happy Rome, Thy radiant Nero gilds his Palace home; His gentle looks with tempered splendour shine, Round his fair neck his golden tresses twine.”’--

  and, in the intimacy of friendship, he ventured to pass his handover the soft golden hair which flowed over the neck of the proudand happy youth.

  ‘How witty it is, and how powerful!’ said Petronius. ‘Who could havewritten it?’

  Lucan gave a meaning smile. He had not been dismissed from the VillaCastor with the other guests, because the Emperor, although jealousof him, could not help admiring his fiery, original, and declamatorygenius.

  ‘You smile, Lucan,’ said Otho; ‘surely your uncle Seneca--that graveand stately philosopher--could not have written this sparkling farce?’

  ‘Seneca?’ said Vestinus; ‘what, he who grovelled at the feet of thefreedman Polybius, and told him that the one supreme consolation tohim for the loss of his wife would be the divine beneficence of thePumpkinity whom here he paints as an imbecile slaverer?’

  ‘I think Seneca deserves to be brought up on a charge of treason, ifhe really wrote it,’ said Tigellinus.

  ‘Nonsense, Tigellinus,’ said Petronius; ‘you need not be sosanguinary. The thing is but a jest, after all. On the stage weallow the freest and broadest jokes against the twelve greater gods,and even the Capitoline Jupiter; why should not a wit jest harmlesslyupon the deified Claudius, now that he has died of eating a mushroom?’

  ‘You are right,’ said Nero; ‘the author is too witty to be punished;and now I always call mushrooms “the food of the gods.” But _was_Seneca the writer?’ he asked, turning to Lucan.

  ‘I think I may say quite confidently that he was _not_,’ said Lucan,a little alarmed by the savage remark of Tigellinus. In point offact, he believed that the brochure had been written by his ownfather, Marcus Annæus Mela, but he felt it desirable that the secretshould be kept.

  ‘We all know that the Annæi are loyal,’ sneered Tigellinus.

  ‘As loyal, at any rate, as men who would sell their souls for anaureus,’ answered the Spaniard. He looked full at Tigellinus, whoremembered the scene, and put it down in his note-book for the dayof vengeance.

  But Petronius loved elegance, and did not care for quarrels, and hetried to turn the conversation from unpleasant subjects. ‘Lucan,’ heasked, ‘have you written any verses about Nero? If so, pray let ushave the pleasure of hearing them.’

  Lucan was far from unwilling to show that he too could flatter, andhe recited the lines of colossal adulation from the opening of the‘Pharsalia.’ Even the civil wars, he sang, with all their slaughter,were not too heavy a price to pay for the blessing of having obtaineda Nero; and he begs him to be careful what part of Olympus he choosesfor his future residence, lest the burden of his greatness shoulddisturb the equilibrium of the world![39]

  Nero had just heard the deification of Claudius torn to shreds withmortal sarcasm, but his own vanity was impervious to any wound, andhe eagerly drank in the adulation which--with no more sincerity thanthat which had been addressed to his predecessor by the Senate andpeople of Rome--assured him of the honour of plenary divinity amongthe deities of heaven in whom, nevertheless, he scarcely evenaffected to believe.

  He turned to Petronius and asked him to recite his poem on theSack of Troy. Petronius did so, and the Emperor listened with eagerinterest. It was a subject which fascinated him.

  ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘to see a city in flames--that would be worth livingfor! I have tried to write something on that subject myself.’

  All present, of course, pressed him to favour them with his poem, andafter a little feminine show of reluctance, and many protestations ofmock modesty, he read them, in an affected voice, some verses whichwere marked in every phrase by the falsetto of the age. It wasevident that they had been painfully elaborated. Indeed, as theylooked at the note-book from which the Emperor read they saw that the_labor limæ_ had been by no means wanting. The book, which afterwardsfell into the hands of Suetonius, was scratched and scrawled overin every direction, and it showed that many a turn of expressionhad been altered twenty times before it became tinkling enough andfantastic enough to suit Nero’s taste. It was clear from the tonein which he read them that the most bizarre lines were exactly thosethat pleased him best, and they were therefore the ones which hisflatterers selected for their loudest applause.

  ‘“Filled the grim horns with Mimallonean buzz”’--

  repeated Lucan. ‘How energetic! how picturesque!’

  ‘He is laughing at you in his sleeve, Cæsar,’ whispered Tigellinus;‘and he thinks his own most impromptu line far superior.’

  Lucan did not overhear the remark, and he proceeded to quote andpraise the three lines on the river Tigris, which

  ‘“Deserts the Persian realms he loved to lave, And to non-seekers shows his sought-for wave.”

  Now those lines I feel sure will live.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Tigellinus, ‘long after your poems areforgotten.’

  The young poet only shrugged his shoulders, and turned on theadventurer a glance of disdain. Petronius, however, who disliked anddespised Tigellinus, was now thoroughly disgusted by his malignity,and did not hesitate to express his contempt. ‘Tigellinus,’ he said.‘if you are so rude I shall ask Cæsar to dismiss you. What nonsenseon your part to pretend to know anything about poetry! You know evenless than Calvisius Sabinus, who confounds Achilles with Ulysses, andhas bought ten slaves who know all the poets by heart to prompt himwhen he makes a mistake.’[40]

  Tigellinus reddened with anger, but he did not venture to reply.

  ‘For my part,’ said Senecio, ‘I prefer the line

  ‘“Thou who didst chine the long-ribb’d Apennine,”

  not to speak of the fine effect of the spondaic, there is the daringimage.’

  ‘There is something finer than both,’ said Petronius, and he quoted aline of real beauty which Seneca has preserved for us in his ‘NaturalQuestions,’ and in which Nero describes the ruffled iridescence of adove’s neck:

  ‘Fair Cytherea’s startled doves illume With sheeny lustre every glancing plume.’[41]

  ‘Many,’ said the polished courtier, ‘have seen the mingled amethystand emerald on the necks of doves and peacocks, but it has beenreserved for Cæsar to describe it.’

  Somehow or other, in spite of all they said, Nero was not satisfied.He had an uneasy misgiving that all of them except Petronius--whom heknew to be genuinely good-natured--were only fooling him to the topof his bent. Not that this misgiving at all disturbed his conceit. Hewas convinced that he was a first-rate poet, as well as a first-ratesinger and lyrist, and indeed a first-rate artist in all respects.It was the thing of which he was most proud, and if these people wereonly _pretending_ to recognise his enormous merits, that was simplythe result of their jealousy.
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  ‘Thank you, friends,’ he said. ‘What you say of me, Lucan, is verykind, but’--he felt it necessary to show his superiority by a littlecriticism--‘I should not recommend you to publish your poem just yet.It is crude in parts. It is too Spanish and provincial. It wants agreat deal of polishing before it can reach the æsthetic standard.’

  Lucan bowed, and bit his lip. He felt that among these poetasters hewas like a Triton among minnows, and his sense of mortification wasso bitter that he could not trust himself to speak, lest he shouldrisk his head by insulting Nero to his face.

  The group broke up. Only Petronius, Paris, and Tigellinus remained.

  ‘Petronius,’ said Nero, ‘you are a genuine poet. What do you think ofPersius and Lucan as poets?’

  ‘Lucan is more of a rhetorician than a poet,’ said Petronius, ‘andPersius more of a Stoic pedagogue. Both have merits, but neitherof them can say anything simply and naturally. They are laboured,artificial, declamatory, monotonous, and more or less unoriginal.Their “honeyed globules of words” are only a sign of decadence.’[42]

  ‘And what do you think of _my_ poetry?’ asked the Emperor, sorelythirsting for a compliment.

  ‘A Cæsar must be supreme in all he does,’ said Petronius, with one ofhis enigmatical smiles.

  He rose, and bowed as he left the room, leaving Nero puzzled anddissatisfied.

  ‘Oh, Paris!’ exclaimed Nero, flinging his arm round the actor’s neck,‘you alone are to be envied. You are a supreme artist. No one isjealous of you. When I see you on the stage, moving the people atyour will to tears or to laughter, or kindling them to the mostdelicious emotions--when I hear the roar of applause which greets youas you stand forth in all your grace, and make the huge theatre ringwith your fine penetrating voice, I often wish we could change ourparts, and I be the actor, and you the Emperor.’

  ‘You mock a poor mummer, Cæsar,’ said Paris; ‘but if I am to amuseyou after the banquet to-night you must let me go and arrangesomething with Aliturus.’

  Nero was left alone with Tigellinus. He yawned wearily. ‘How tediousall life is!’ he said. ‘Well, never mind, there is the banquet of thenight to look forward to.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tigellinus, ‘and when we are heated with wine we willwander out into the grounds; and in the caves and winding pathwaysPetronius and Crispinilla have invented a new amusement for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do not ask me, Cæsar, and you will all the more enjoy its novelty.’

  ‘Yes, but our time here is rapidly drawing to a close, and then comesRome again, and all the boredom of the Senate, and of hearing causes,and entertaining dull people of consequence. And there I must more orless play at propriety.’

  ‘Why must you, Cæsar? Cannot you do exactly as you like? Who is thereto question you?’

  ‘My mother, Agrippina, if no one else.’

  ‘You have only one reason to fear the Augusta.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Because, Cæsar, as I have already warned you, she is making much ofBritannicus. I have reason to believe that she is also plotting tosecure the elevation of Rubellius Plautus or Sulla. She is not at alltoo old to marry either of them, and both of them have imperial bloodin their veins.’

  ‘Rubellius Plautus?’ asked Nero; ‘why, he is a peaceful pedant. Andthat miserable creature Sulla cares for nothing but his dinner.’

  ‘We shall see in time,’ said Tigellinus; ‘but meanwhile, so long asBritannicus lives--’

  ‘Finish your sentence.’

  ‘So long as Britannicus lives, Nero is not safe.’

  Nero sank into a gloomy reverie. He had not suspected that thedark-eyed adventurer had designs as deep as those of Sejanus himself.That guilty and intriguing minister of Tiberius was only a Romanknight, and the whole family of Germanicus, as well as the son andthe grandson of Drusus, stood in the direct line of descent as heirsto the throne. Yet he had for years worked on with the deliberateintention of clearing every one of them from his path, and climbingto that throne himself.

  Why should not Tigellinus follow a similar[*4] course? He hadpersuaded Nero that he knew something about soldiership. He hadmade himself popular among the Prætorian guards. Burrus might begot rid of, and Tigellinus, by pandering to Nero’s worst instincts,encouraging his alarms, and awakening his jealousies, might come tobe accepted as an indispensable guardian of his interests, and so bemade the Prætorian Præfect. Once let him gain that position, and hemight achieve almost anything. Octavia would evidently be childless.Nero was the last of his race. It would be just as well to get rid,beforehand, of all possible rivals to his ambitious designs. Plautusand Sulla might wait, but nothing could be done till Britannicus wasput out of the way. It would then be more easy to deal with Agrippinaand with Octavia.

  So he devised; and the spirits of evil laughed, knowing that he wasbut paving the road for his own headlong destruction.

  But that night no one was gayer and more smiling than he at the softIonian festival, where they were waited on by boys robed in white andcrowned with roses. It had been spread in the _viridarium_, a greengarden surrounded by trees cut and twisted into quaint shapes ofbirds and beasts by the _ars topiaria_. The larger dishes were spreadon the marble rim of a fountain, while the smaller ones floated amongthe water-lilies in vessels made in the shape of birds or fish. Byone novel and horrible refinement of luxury, a fish was caught andboiled alive during the feast in a transparent vase, that the guestsmight watch its dying gleams of ruby and emerald. When the drinkingwas finished they went into the groves and gardens of the villa,and the surprise which had been prepared for Nero was a loose sylvanpageant. Every grove and cavern and winding walk had been illuminatedat twilight by lamps which hung from tree to tree. In the open spacesnaiads were bathing in the lake, and leaving trails of light inthe water, and uplifting their white arms, which glittered likegold in the moonlight; and youths with torches sprang out of thelurking-places dressed like fauns or satyrs, and danced with maidensin the guise of hamadryads, and crowned the guests with flowers, andled them to new dances and new orgies and new revelries, while theircries and songs woke innumerable echoes, which mocked the insultedmajesty of the night.

  * * * * *

  And in those very caves, four hundred years later, there came andlived a boy a little younger than Nero was, and amid the pleasancesof the villas, which had fallen to ruin, and in the lonely cavernshigh up among the hills, he made his solitary home. He had desertedthe world, disgusted and disillusioned with the wickedness of Rome.And once, when the passions of the flesh seemed to threaten him, herushed out of his cave and rolled his naked body on the thorns wherenow the roses grow. And multitudes were struck by his holiness andself-devotion, and monasteries rose on every crag, and the scene,once desecrated by the enchantments of the sorceress Sense, waspurified by the feet of saintly men, and the cavern where youngslaves had lurked in the guise of the demons of the Gentiles is nowcalled the Holy Cave.

  That boy of fourteen was Benedict. The name of Nero has rottedfor more than eighteen centuries, but to this day the memory ofSt. Benedict is fragrant as his own roses; for

  ‘Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.’