by F. W. Farrar
CHAPTER XXVII
_DEATH IN THE GOBLET_
‘Fratrum, conjugum, parentum neces, alia solita parentibus ausi.’--TAC. _Hist._ v. 3.
A cry rang through the banquet-room!
It was the cry of Titus. Every guest started as if a thunderbolt hadfallen. In that guilty time, when obscene wings flapped about so manygilded roofs, when the sword dangled by a hair over so many nobleheads, when foes cut throats by a whisper, when any day might exposea man to denunciation for imaginary crimes by one of the slaveswhom he regarded as his natural enemies, any sudden movement, anyunexpected event, was enough to drive the blood from the blanchingcheek. But when such a cry--so wild, so startling--rang over thetumultuous sounds of an imperial banquet, they knew not whether thevery earth was not about to open beneath their feet.
What had happened?
Britannicus, as we have said, was in no alarm that evening. Of alltimes and places it seemed the least likely to attempt his poisoning.The fact that at this feast he had his appointed _prægustator_, andthat two deaths would terribly reveal a crime, was, he thought, asufficient safeguard.
But these were the very reasons why Tigellinus had arranged thatNero’s desire for his brother’s murder should be carried out thatnight. He fancied that no one would suspect Nero of choosing a sceneof such festive splendour and unusual publicity for a crime so dark.
The ingenuity of wickedness easily got over the difficulty aboutthe _prægustator_. This man was one of the smooth, civil, plausiblewretches who abounded at that epoch. He was a Greek slave namedSyneros, trained in the worst vices and ready to sell his soul at anytime for a few sestertia. He handed to Britannicus a myrrhine gobletfilled with some mulled Falernian, which he tasted first. It had beenpurposely made so hot that no one could drink it. The prince gaveit back, and told Syneros to put some cold water to it. The slavedid so, and into that cold water--which he had hidden in a vial ofAlexandrian glass behind one of the coolers full of snow--had beenalready dropped the deadly potion which Locusta had given to Nero.
Britannicus drank it unsuspectingly, and Titus had taken it up anddrunk a little, when his eye caught sight of Britannicus, and withthe cry which had alarmed those three hundred guests he had droppedthe myrrhine vase, crashing it to shivers on the mosaic floor.
For Britannicus had scarcely finished his draught when with onewild look he clutched the arm of Titus, and then, half supportedby Clemens, sank speechless and breathless from his seat. It seemedas if in one instant the swift poison had pervaded all his limbs.His last conscious thought had been for another. Titus rememberedwith undying gratitude, that the clutch upon his arm had saved hislife. He felt sure that with one and the same flash of intuitionBritannicus had recognised that the draught was poisoned, and hadtried to prevent Titus from drinking it.
But when the guests turned their eyes to the table where the youngprince was sitting they saw the terror-stricken look on the facesof Titus and the other boys, and Flavius Clemens supporting in hisarms the white and convulsed form of the son of Claudius. At thatspectacle many of them leapt from their couches, and even began tofly in different directions. Who could tell what charges of plotsmight be founded on such an incident, and who might be involved inthem? But those who were more familiar with the mysteries of theCourt, though they had started to their feet, stood rooted in theirplaces with their eyes fixed on Nero, waiting for some sign to guideor reassure them.
And then Nero showed the consummate coolness of villainy whichcould hardly have been expected from so young a murderer. He wasshort-sighted, but he could very well guess what had happened,and he had his little speech ready prepared. Indeed, he had beenrepeating it over to himself while he vainly endeavoured to get upa conversation with his mother or his wife. Putting his emerald tohis eye,[63] he raised himself on one elbow from his soft mass ofcushions, and said, amid the dead silence--
‘Oh, I see what is the matter. My brother Britannicus, poor boy,has been afflicted from childhood with the comitial disease. Hisepileptic fit will soon be over, and all his senses will return. Prayresume your places, my friends. Do not let the mirth of the banquetbe disturbed by this little accident.’
Agrippina was in a ferment of alarm. She could scarcely believe herears. That ready lie about the epilepsy! She knew--and many of theguests knew--that Britannicus was a fine strong lad, who had neverhad an epileptic attack in his life. One thing only could havehappened. Britannicus, in whom rested the last hopes of her vengeanceand her ambition, must have been poisoned by his brother. Infernalgods! was it possible? Could this have been the deed of that youthwhom it seemed but yesterday that she had clasped to her bosom as alovely, rosy, smiling child? Panic, consternation seized her. ‘Howlong,’ she thought, ‘will he abstain from the prophesied murderof me, his mother?’ She panted; she shuddered in every limb; sherequired all her efforts not to faint; she grew white and red byturns, and those who were watching her saw the cup of wine whichshe seized shake so violently in her trembling hand that she spilledhalf its contents over her bosom.
‘She, at least, is as innocent of this as Octavia herself,’ whisperedSeneca to Burrus. ‘But, oh! horror! where will these things end?’
Octavia looked as though she had been turned to marble. She spoke noword; she made no sign. Agrippina had tried in vain to prevent herspeaking countenance from betraying the violence of her emotions; butOctavia, young as she still was, and little more than a child, hadbeen taught from her earliest years to hide her emotions under a maskof impassibility; and, indeed, the blow which had thus fallen uponher was beyond her power to realise. The awful grief struck her dumb.One shrinking motion, one stifled scream, and she reclined thereas though she were dead--as pale and as motionless, seeing nothing,hearing nothing, conscious of nothing, her white cheek looking allthe more ghastly from the crimson roses which circled her darktresses and fell twining over her fair neck.
But how should the mirth of the banquet be resumed? The stereotypedsmile on the features of Seneca looked like a grin of anguish.The brow of Pætus Thrasea was dark as a thunder-cloud. Clemensand several of the prince’s boyish friends were weeping audiblyand uncontrollably, while Titus, already feeling ill as well asterrified, was sobbing with his head on the table. Nero himself invain attempted a fitful hilarity, which could wake no echo amongguests of whom many--
‘Like the Ithacensian suitors of old time, Stared with great eyes, and laughed with alien lips, And knew not what they meant.’
So dense a cloud fell over their minds that it was a relief to allwhen, without waiting for the termination of the banquet, Nerodismissed his guests, availing himself of the excuse that thecomitial disease had always been regarded as an evil omen, and that,though he hoped his brother’s attack would prove but slight, he sawhow deeply it had affected the spirits of his friends.
They had come to that superb feast in pride and gaiety; they hurriedhome in horror and alarm.
