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

by F. W. Farrar

  CHAPTER LIX

  _THE AGONY OF AN EMPRESS_

  ‘Satiety And sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, Mock the tired worlding. Idle Hope And dire Remembrance interlope, And vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: The bubble floats before; the spectre stalks behind.’

  COLERIDGE, _Ode to Tranquillity_.

  In one of the most enchanting rooms of the Golden Palace, surroundedby every object of beauty and splendour which the wealth of kingdomscould supply, sat Poppæa, miserable in heart with a misery whichnothing could alleviate--no luxury of the present, no memory of thepast, no hope of the future. Like Agrippina, like Seneca, like Nero,she had been ‘cursed with every granted prayer.’ Nothing which thisworld could give was left for her to attain. Of the honours whichoverpower, of the riches which clog, of the pleasures which inflamethe soul, she had unbounded experience. They had left her heart wearyand her life in ashes, and she had never dreamed of the secret whichhad enabled so many thousands of humble Christians, whom she wouldhave regarded as the dust beneath her feet, to find exaltation inabasement, wealth in penury, and joy in tribulation.

  She was Empress; she was Augusta; she was mother of an infant whohad been deified; her smile meant prosperity, her frown was death.Of what avail was it all? Could this awful power, could thoseinestimable gems, could the gorgeousness of her Golden House fillup the void in a heart numbed by satiety and chilled by despair? Whathad she to aim at? Her enemies had been swept out of her path. Whathad she left to hope for? There was no object of earthly wishes whichshe had not attained. Ah! but what work worth doing could she findto do in order to fill up the vacuity of aimless self-indulgence?Who was there to love her, or whom she could love?

  She thought of her early home, of her lovely mother, of her consularand triumphant grandfather, of the adoration which had surroundedher in the days of her own dawning beauty. She thought of RufiusCrispinus, the bridegroom of her youth, who had loved her tenderly,and whom she had loved, and of the little son whom she had borne him.He had grown up into a beautiful and gallant child, and the motherhad always listened with pride to the anecdotes about him which weresecretly brought to her. One of the heaviest of the many afflictingthoughts which were weighing upon her to-day was the manner in whichNero had treated her former husband and her son. Rufius Crispinushad once been Prætorian Præfect, and had been rewarded with consularinsignia, but Nero hated his very name because he had been Poppæa’shusband; and he had taken advantage of Piso’s conspiracy first tobanish him to Sardinia and recently to order him to put an end to hislife. How fatal had her love been to him! It had blighted his career;it had stained his home; it had cut short his life. But what had herpoor boy done that he too should perish? She had heard only a fewdays since that simply because in his games the high-spirited ladhad played at being general or emperor, Nero had given orders to hisslaves to drown him by suddenly pushing him into the sea while hesat fishing on a rock. She knew that this crime had been committed,and his bright young life sacrificed simply because he shared herblood; and what maddened her most of all was that she dared make nocomplaint, dared not even to reveal that she was aware of the murder,because to allude to her first husband or her son was always to rouseNero into a paroxysm of fury. In the brightest and most luxuriousroom of the Golden House she sat solitary, and sobbing as if herheart would break.

  Then she thought of Otho. Dandy as he was, and debauchee, to her atleast he had been passionately faithful. She had abandoned Crispinusto live with Otho partly from a certain fascination which hung abouthis wickedness, but even more from motives of ambition, and becausehe was Nero’s most cherished favourite. She heard good accounts ofhis administration in Lusitania. Her intrigues to entangle the loveof Nero had succeeded; but would she not have been incomparably morehappy if she had remained in the home of Otho, and still more if shehad lived as the virtuous wife of her first husband?

  For with Nero she had long been disgusted, while she was obliged tofeed his gluttonous vanity with perpetual eulogies of his beauty.And when in the close intercourse of daily life she saw to thedepths of the man’s nature, it was impossible for her to find anywords sufficiently bitter for the expression of her contempt. Andthis wretched meticulous creature, with no manliness in him; thistenth-rate singer and dilettante twangler on harps; this lump ofegregious vanity; this catspaw of Tigellinus, whose effeminacywas steeped in the blood of the innocent which he had shed likewater--this womanish man, with none of the worth of Crispinus, andnone of the charm of Otho, was to be her husband and companion forlife! The day for other lovers, the day when she could have theexcitement of secret intrigues, was past, for anything of the kindwould mean instant death. And yet she felt more and more that it wasimpossible to retain secure hold on such love as Nero’s. It was anignoble love, tigerish and animal, which would evanesce long beforeher youth and beauty had faded away. If Nero had been a man--ifthere had been in his passion for her a single ennobling element--shemight have retained him in her bondage for long years, as she couldcertainly have retained Otho. But already Nero preferred to hersociety the flattery of parasites and minions, and at this very time,though she was very sick and languid with the approach of motherhood,to which she looked forward with neither hope nor happiness, he hadleft her to her weary solitude, and for days had scarcely so much asseen or talked with her. Was some rival casting her spells over hisvolatile and evil nature, and taking vengeance on her for the wrongsof Octavia? The thought made her heart burn with a fury of impotentindignation.

  She was determined that she would sit up this night and await hisreturn in his own bedchamber; and, as opportunity occurred, wouldeither assail him by reproaches, or win him back by caresses. Howcould she kill the interminable hours? She had no friend, no child,no confidante--none near her but slaves who hated her and yettrembled at her presence. She had no resources in herself, nothingto occupy her but her own evil thoughts and deplorable regrets.

  The Empress grew more and more weary, more and more tormented withintolerable thoughts through the leaden hours. At length, long aftermidnight, she heard the footsteps of the watch and of many slaves asthey conducted Nero to his chamber.

  ‘What! you here?’ he said with contemptuous indifference as hedismissed his attendants.

  She looked at him. He had evidently been drinking, and was fresh fromone of the scenes of debauchery which always formed the conclusion ofhis charioteering displays. For he still wore the dress of a jockeyof the green faction, and its succinctness revealed his thin legs andprotuberant person. To her he looked a spectacle of ignominy. Wherewas the passionate courtesy with which her Otho would have greetedher? Where the fond caress which Crispinus would have printed on hercheek? To think that this thing was the Emperor of Rome!

  She half-rose from her couch, her pale face aflame with indignation.

  ‘Jockey!’ she hissed out. ‘Companion of base minions, comrade ofcoarse gladiators, where have you been? Why do you thus steep manhoodin ignominy and drag the purple of Empire through the mud?’

  It was the pent-up passion of her woman’s heart which thus burstforth, and it came on Nero like an unexpected blow. He looked at herfor a moment with eyes opened to their fullest, and then, staggeringforwards, dealt her a brutal kick.

  Poppæa, with a groan of anguish, sank swooning to the ground. Shelay on the floor as dead, her features white as marble, her hairstreaming from its bands and covering the floor with its gleamingwaves. The sight sobered Nero. Had he killed her? Furious as hewas, he had not intended that. He loudly summoned his slaves andPoppæa’s attendants, and they bore her, still unconscious, to herown apartments. Nero did not tell any one what had happened, butwhen the physicians saw the bruise which his foot had made theyknew everything, and when she had awoke from her swoon Poppæadisdainfully told them the simple truth. From the first they didnot conceal from her or from Nero that, in her delicate situation,her life would be in extreme peril.

  She ling
ered on in anguish for many days, her heart broken, her lifesacrificed. Nero would fain have testified his maudlin and unavailingremorse. He passionately desired a child to continue his line, andnow he had shattered his own hopes. If he had ever loved any womanwith anything resembling real love, it was Poppæa. He had onlykicked her in the blind rage of ruthless egotism. Nothing had beenfurther from his intention than to murder her or even to cause herexcruciating pangs.

  He asked to be admitted to her presence, but she refused to see him.She sent to tell him that unless he wished to kill her, he would notvisit her. The physicians assured him that the mere suggestion of hisentering the room had thrown her into dangerous convulsions. As forthe expressions of regret which he had written to her, she was tooweak and ill to write any reply, and she deigned to send no message.

  There was one person, and one only, whom she wished to see. It wasPomponia Græcina. For her Poppæa had always felt an involuntaryrespect, and had been deeply impressed by her words and bearing whenshe came to plead for the Christians. If there were any one who couldbring healing to her wounded soul, or suggest one moment’s peace toher tortured heart, it was the stainless wife of Aulus Plautius.

  Pomponia had been sick nigh unto death. The prison fever which shehad caught in ministering to the Christians had been a virulenttyphoid, from which she would not have recovered but for heruntroubled conscience, her pure and simple life. For herself shedid not wish to live. Not only had her young Aulus been disgracedand murdered, but what she had witnessed of the treatment of theChristians, and what she had heard of their exterminating martyrdoms,had ploughed up the depths of her soul with horror. She almost longedthat it could have been permitted her to share the fate of all thosedear men and women whom she had known, and who had now passed withwhite robes and palms in their hands into the presence of theirSaviour. But her husband was falling into deep melancholy, and forhis sake she made every effort to recover. And because in all hertroubles the peace of God was with her, her constitution triumphedover the ravages of the disease, and when she received a messagethat Poppæa was lying on her death-bed and longed to see her, shewas daily regaining her strength in her villa at Tibur.

  She did not hesitate;--for what purpose was there in life if itwere not to do deeds of helpfulness and love? She was carried in herlitter from Tibur to the Golden House, and conducted to the chamberof the Empress. She was spared the trial of meeting Nero, who thatday was taking part in a contest of singing and harp-playing on thepublic stage at the quinquennial Neronia. To prevent that disgrace,the Senate had spontaneously offered him the crowns of eloquenceand song. But the _semblance_ of victory did not suit his vanity.He played at being a fair competitor. The theatre was crowded tosuffocation, not only with Romans but with provincials, and severalknights and burghers had been trodden to death in the opening rushto secure seats. And there stood Nero on the stage, harp in hand,bowing and scraping to the assembly, and trembling with shamnervousness before the adjudicators! It was an infinitely drearyentertainment, for the soldiers stood in every gangway with batons,beating those who did not applaud or who applauded in wrong places,and as no one was allowed to leave the theatre on pain of death,not a few were taken seriously ill, while some braved the risk ofdropping down from the outside, and some pretended to faint ordie that they might be carried out of the theatre. It was on thisoccasion that poor Vespasian fell into new disgrace. Harp-playingand singing, whether good or execrable, was not at all in his line,and, do what he would, he found it impossible to prevent himself fromfalling asleep, as he had already done in the villa at Subiaco. Hewas caught in the act by Phœbus, the freedman of Nero, who roughlyshook him by the shoulder, and abused him without stint. He was verynear being condemned to death, but so many persons of distinctioninterceded for him, that this time Nero spared him. He was, however,forbidden ever again to appear at Court, and received a strong hintthat the more entirely he kept out of the way the safer it wouldbe for him. ‘What am I to do?’ he asked Phœbus, ‘and whither am Ito go?’ ‘_Abi Morboniam!_ Go to the dogs!’ answered the insolentfreedman. A few years later, when Vespasian wore the purple, thefreedman implored his pardon for the insult. ‘_Abi Morboniam!_ Goto the dogs!’ was the only answer of the good-humoured Emperor.

  While Nero was fooling away his Empire in such scenes Pomponiaentered the chamber of death. There lay Poppæa in the miserablewreck of her youth and loveliness. Wicked she had been, and crownedwith every gift but that of virtue, yet Pomponia could not but pityone so young and so lost, childless, hopeless, unloved, bereaved--thrice wedded, though little more than girl, and now the victim ofher husband’s brutality.

  Poppæa turned her languid glance towards the opening door, but whenshe saw who her visitor was, the poor face, drawn and convulsedwith pain, brightened for an instant. The ‘amber’ tresses whichNero had sung of had been cut off to relieve her feverish brows,and Pomponia’s experienced eye detected on her countenance the sealof death.

  ‘You think that there is no hope?’ whispered Poppæa as she saw thelook of compassion deepen on Pomponia’s face. ‘Ah, tell me the truthas it is, and do not flatter me with false hopes as these slaves do.’

  ‘I fear that you will die, Augusta,’ answered Pomponia, solemnly yettenderly.

  ‘Call me not by that vain title. Would that I had never borne it!Would that I had died in childhood, or in my first home! Had I doneso, loving faces might have been looking on me now.’

  ‘Linger not in the thoughts of the past, Poppæa; it is irrevocable.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is irrevocable; and I cannot bear the faceswhich look upon me so reproachfully--the face of my murdered husband,Crispinus; of my drowned son; worst of all the sad face of Octavia.’A shudder ran through all her frame. ‘At every moment,’ she said,‘directly I close my eyes, her head is before me, as I saw it inall its ghastliness.’

  ‘Grieve not for Octavia,’ said Pomponia. ‘I have heard all about herdeath. She died forgiving all her enemies, and in perfect peace.’

  ‘Peace? Where is it to be had?’ asked Poppæa. ‘It is not a pearl, Ithink, of any earthly ocean.’

  ‘No,’ said Pomponia, ‘but of a heavenly.’

  ‘Heavenly? What is heaven?’ asked Poppæa, wearily. ‘All that weknow is life; and life has given me all that pleasure can give, andrank and riches, and the adoration of self; and it has left me somiserable that life itself has grown hateful to me, while yet I feardeath.’

  Pomponia listened in profound sadness. ‘Poppæa,’ she said, ‘I neednot fear now to tell you that I am a Christian; and we Christianshave been taught that “he who saveth his life shall lose it, and hewho loseth it for Christ’s sake, shall find it.” It is too late foryou to redeem the life which you have flung away, or to find thepleasure which you have slain in seeking for it. But while there islife, there is hope. The God in whom we Christians believe is a Godof mercy, and we believe also that Christ, the Son of God, died forour sins, and that by Him they may be washed away.’

  ‘All the waters of Adria would not wash mine away. Oh, Pomponia, doyou know that Seneca, and Octavia, and many others owed their deathsto me?’

  ‘You have sinned deeply; but you have, I know, been taught about thesacred books of the Jews, and have you not read there of a guiltyking, an adulterer and murderer, who yet prayed “Oh, pardon mineiniquity, for it is great”? And has no Jewish teacher read you thepromise of God by His prophet, “Though your sins be as scarlet, theyshall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, theyshall be as wool”?’

  ‘I have heard those words,’ said Poppæa. ‘They were quoted to meonce by Helen, Queen of Adiabene, who is now living as a proselyteat Jerusalem; and I have been taught that there is but one God.’

  ‘Oh, pray to Him, then,’ said Pomponia, ‘for He is abundant inpardon.’

  ‘I know not how to pray,’ said the dying Empress; ‘pray for me.’

  If Poppæa knew not, Pomponia knew well; for to her, as a Christian,prayer had become the habit,
the attitude of her life. Poppæa hadnever before heard such words as those. She knew that when she diedshe would be made a goddess by the Senate, as her infant child hadbeen; yet here by her bedside Pomponia was speaking of her as thoughshe were any other woman, speaking of her deep sinfulness, and notmaking any difference between her case and that of the commonestslave-girl who might have lived an evil life. And all that shecould do was to resign her soul, and suffer it to be borne alongunresisting on that stream of prayer.

  And yet she felt, even in her misery, some dim sense of consolation,some faint gleam of hope such as she had never felt before. She knewthat death was near, and urged Pomponia not to leave her. Pomponiasat by the bedside, holding the weak hand, and doing every act oftenderness, and speaking words of consolation, until the sinfultroubled life had ebbed away.

  Such a mind as Nero’s had become was incapable of sorrow. Heannounced, indeed, that he was overwhelmed with grief, and heindulged in a certain amount of hysterical and theatric lamentation,which interfered in no way with his follies or his appetites. Afuneral was decreed to Poppæa at the public expense, and Nero atthe Rostra pronounced a eulogy--not on her virtues, for there werenone on which he could speak, but on her beauty and high fortune,and because she had been the mother of a divine infant. By her ownwish--learnt doubtless from the Jews--she was buried, and not burntas was the Roman custom. Nero had so many spices burnt at her funeralthat the learned doubted whether Arabia could furnish more in asingle summer. But not one genuine tear was shed upon her grave.