The city burned on. The Circus Maximus had fallen in ruins. Entire
streets and alleys in parts which began to burn first were falling in
turn. After every fall pillars of flame rose for a time to the very
sky. The wind had changed, and blew now with mighty force from the sea,
bearing toward the Cælian, the Esquiline, and the Viminal rivers of
flame, brands, and cinders. Still the authorities provided for rescue.
At command of Tigellinus, who had hastened from Antium the third
day before, houses on the Esquiline were torn down so that the fire,
reaching empty spaces, died of itself. That was, however, undertaken
solely to save a remnant of the city; to save that which was burning
was not to be thought of. There was need also to guard against further
results of the ruin. Incalculable wealth had perished in Rome; all the
property of its citizens had vanished; hundreds of thousands of people
were wandering in utter want outside the walls. Hunger had begun to
pinch this throng the second day, for the immense stores of provisions
in the city had burned with it. In the universal disorder and in the
destruction of authority no one had thought of furnishing new supplies.
Only after the arrival of Tigellinus were proper orders sent to Ostia;
but meanwhile the people had grown more threatening.
The house at Aqua Appia, in which Tigellinus lodged for the moment,
was surrounded by crowds of women, who from morning till late at night
cried, “Bread and a roof!” Vainly did pretorians, brought from the great
camp between the Via Salaria and the Nomentana, strive to maintain order
of some kind. Here and there they were met by open, armed resistance. In
places weaponless crowds pointed to the burning city, and shouted,
“Kill us in view of that fire!” They abused Cæsar, the Augustians, the
pretorians; excitement rose every moment, so that Tigellinus, looking
at night on the thousands of fires around the city, said to himself that
those were fires in hostile camps.
Besides flour, as much baked bread as possible was brought at his
command, not only from Ostia, but from all towns and neighboring
villages. When the first instalment came at night to the Emporium, the
people broke the chief gate toward the Aventine, seized all supplies in
the twinkle of an eye, and caused terrible disturbance. In the light of
the conflagration they fought for loaves, and trampled many of them into
the earth. Flour from torn bags whitened like snow the whole space from
the granary to the arches of Drusus and Germanicus. The uproar continued
till soldiers seized the building and dispersed the crowd with arrows
and missiles.
Never since the invasion by the Gauls under Brennus had Rome beheld such
disaster. People in despair compared the two conflagrations. But in the
time of Brennus the Capitol remained. Now the Capitol was encircled by a
dreadful wreath of flame. The marbles, it is true, were not blazing;
but at night, when the wind swept the flames aside for a moment, rows
of columns in the lofty sanctuary of Jove were visible, red as glowing
coals. In the days of Brennus, moreover, Rome had a disciplined integral
people, attached to the city and its altars; but now crowds of a
many-tongued populace roamed nomad-like around the walls of burning
Rome,--people composed for the greater part of slaves and freedmen,
excited, disorderly, and ready, under the pressure of want, to turn
against authority and the city.
But the very immensity of the fire, which terrified every heart,
disarmed the crowd in a certain measure. After the fire might come
famine and disease; and to complete the misfortune the terrible heat
of July had appeared. It was impossible to breathe air inflamed both by
fire and the sun. Night brought no relief, on the contrary it presented
a hell. During daylight an awful and ominous spectacle met the eye. In
the centre a giant city on heights was turned into a roaring volcano;
round about as far as the Alban Hills was one boundless camp, formed of
sheds, tents, huts, vehicles, bales, packs, stands, fires, all covered
with smoke and dust, lighted by sun-rays reddened by passing through
smoke,--everything filled with roars, shouts, threats, hatred and
terror, a monstrous swarm of men, women, and children. Mingled with
Quirites were Greeks, shaggy men from the North with blue eyes,
Africans, and Asiatics; among citizens were slaves, freedmen,
gladiators, merchants, mechanics, servants, and soldiers,--a real sea of
people, flowing around the island of fire.
Various reports moved this sea as wind does a real one. These reports
were favorable and unfavorable. People told of immense supplies of wheat
and clothing to be brought to the Emporium and distributed gratis. It
was said, too, that provinces in Asia and Africa would be stripped of
their wealth at Cæsar’s command, and the treasures thus gained be
given to the inhabitants of Rome, so that each man might build his own
dwelling. But it was noised about also that water in the aqueducts had
been poisoned; that Nero intended to annihilate the city, destroy the
inhabitants to the last person, then move to Greece or to Egypt, and
rule the world from a new place. Each report ran with lightning speed,
and each found belief among the rabble, causing outbursts of hope,
anger, terror, or rage. Finally a kind of fever mastered those nomadic
thousands. The belief of Christians that the end of the world by fire
was at hand, spread even among adherents of the gods, and extended
daily. People fell into torpor or madness. In clouds lighted by the
burning, gods were seen gazing down on the ruin; hands were stretched
toward those gods then to implore pity or send them curses.
Meanwhile soldiers, aided by a certain number of inhabitants, continued
to tear down houses on the Esquiline and the Cælian, as also in the
Trans-Tiber; these divisions were saved therefore in considerable part.
But in the city itself were destroyed incalculable treasures accumulated
through centuries of conquest; priceless works of art, splendid temples,
the most precious monuments of Rome’s past, and Rome’s glory. They
foresaw that of all Rome there would remain barely a few parts on the
edges, and that hundreds of thousands of people would be without a roof.
Some spread reports that the soldiers were tearing down houses not to
stop the fire, but to prevent any part of the city from being saved.
Tigellinus sent courier after courier to Antium, imploring Cæsar in each
letter to come and calm the despairing people with his presence. But
Nero moved only when fire had seized the “domus transitoria,” and he
hurried so as not to miss the moment in which the conflagration should
be at its highest.
Meanwhile fire had reached the Via Nomentana, but turned from it at once
with a change of wind toward the Via Lata and the Tiber. It surrounded
the Capitol, spread along the Forum Boarium, destroyed everything which
it had spared before, and approached the Palatine a second time.
Tigellinus, assembling all the pretorian forces, despatched courier
after courier to Cæsar with an announcement that he would lose nothing
of the grandeur of the spectacle, for the fire had increased.
But Nero, who was on the road, wished to come at night, so as to sate
himself all the better with a view of the perishing capital. Therefore
he halted, in the neighborhood of Aqua Albana, and, summoning to his
tent the tragedian Aliturus, decided with his aid on posture, look,
and expression; learned fitting gestures, disputing with the actor
stubbornly whether at the words “O sacred city, which seemed more
enduring than Ida,” he was to raise both hands, or, holding in one the
forminga, drop it by his side and raise only the other. This question
seemed to him then more important than all others. Starting at last
about nightfall, he took counsel of Petronius also whether to the lines
describing the catastrophe he might add a few magnificent blasphemies
against the gods, and whether, considered from the standpoint of art,
they would not have rushed spontaneously from the mouth of a man in such
a position, a man who was losing his birthplace.
At length he approached the walls about midnight with his numerous
court, composed of whole detachments of nobles, senators, knights,
freedmen, slaves, women, and children. Sixteen thousand pretorians,
arranged in line of battle along the road, guarded the peace and safety
of his entrance, and held the excited populace at a proper distance. The
people cursed, shouted, and hissed on seeing the retinue, but dared not
attack it. In many places, however, applause was given by the rabble,
which, owning nothing, had lost nothing in the fire, and which hoped for
a more bountiful distribution than usual of wheat, olives, clothing, and
money. Finally, shouts, hissing, and applause were drowned in the blare
of horns and trumpets, which Tigellinus had caused to be sounded.
Nero, on arriving at the Ostian Gate, halted, and said, “Houseless ruler
of a houseless people, where shall I lay my unfortunate head for the
night?”
After he had passed the Clivus Delphini, he ascended the Appian aqueduct
on steps prepared purposely. After him followed the Augustians and a
choir of singers, bearing citharæ, lutes, and other musical instruments.
And all held the breath in their breasts, waiting to learn if he would
say some great words, which for their own safety they ought to remember.
But he stood solemn, silent, in a purple mantle, and a wreath of golden
laurels, gazing at the raging might of the flames. When Terpnos gave
him a golden lute, he raised his eyes to the sky, filled with the
conflagration, as if he were waiting for inspiration.
The people pointed at him from afar as he stood in the bloody gleam. In
the distance fiery serpents were hissing. The ancient and most sacred
edifices were in flames: the temple of Hercules, reared by Evander, was
burning; the temple of Jupiter Stator was burning, the temple of Luna,
built by Servius Tullius, the house of Numa Pompilius, the sanctuary of
Vesta with the penates of the Roman people; through waving flames the
Capitol appeared at intervals; the past and the spirit of Rome was
burning. But he, Cæsar, was there with a lute in his hand and a
theatrical expression on his face, not thinking of his perishing
country, but of his posture and the prophetic words with which he might
describe best the greatness of the catastrophe, rouse most admiration,
and receive the warmest plaudits. He detested that city, he detested its
inhabitants, beloved only his own songs and verses; hence he rejoiced in
heart that at last he saw a tragedy like that which he was writing.
The verse-maker was happy, the declaimer felt inspired, the seeker for
emotions was delighted at the awful sight, and thought with rapture
that even the destruction of Troy was as nothing if compared with the
destruction of that giant city. What more could he desire? There was
world-ruling Rome in flames, and he, standing on the arches of the
aqueduct with a golden lute, conspicuous, purple, admired, magnificent,
poetic. Down below, somewhere in the darkness, the people are muttering
and storming. But let them mutter! Ages will pass, thousands of years
will go by, but mankind will remember and glorify the poet, who in that
night sang the fall and the burning of Troy. What was Homer compared
with him? What Apollo himself with his hollowed-out lute?
Here he raised his hands and, striking the strings, pronounced the words
of Priam.
“O nest of my fathers, O dear cradle!” His voice in the open air,
with the roar of the conflagration, and the distant murmur of crowding
thousands, seemed marvellously weak, uncertain, and low, and the
sound of the accompaniment like the buzzing of insects. But senators,
dignitaries, and Augustians, assembled on the aqueduct, bowed their
heads and listened in silent rapture. He sang long, and his motive was
ever sadder. At moments, when he stopped to catch breath, the chorus of
singers repeated the last verse; then Nero cast the tragic “syrma” [A
robe with train, worn especially by tragic actors] from his shoulder
with a gesture learned from Aliturus, struck the lute, and sang on.
When at last he had finished the lines composed, he improvised, seeking
grandiose comparisons in the spectacle unfolded before him. His face
began to change. He was not moved, it is true, by the destruction of his
country’s capital; but he was delighted and moved with the pathos of his
own words to such a degree that his eyes filled with tears on a sudden.
At last he dropped the lute to his feet with a clatter, and, wrapping
himself in the “syrma,” stood as if petrified, like one of those statues
of Niobe which ornamented the courtyard of the Palatine.
Soon a storm of applause broke the silence. But in the distance this was
answered by the howling of multitudes. No one doubted then that Cæsar
had given command to burn the city, so as to afford himself a spectacle
and sing a song at it. Nero, when he heard that cry from hundreds of
thousands, turned to the Augustians with the sad, resigned smile of a
man who is suffering from injustice.
“See,” said he, “how the Quirites value poetry and me.”
“Scoundrels!” answered Vatinius. “Command the pretorians, lord, to fall
on them.”
Nero turned to Tigellinus,--
“Can I count on the loyalty of the soldiers?”
“Yes, divinity,” answered the prefect.
But Petronius shrugged his shoulders, and said,--
“On their loyalty, yes, but not on their numbers. Remain meanwhile
where thou art, for here it is safest; but there is need to pacify the
people.”
Seneca was of this opinion also, as was Licinus the consul. Meanwhile
the excitement below was increasing. The people were arming with stones,
tent-poles, sticks from the wagons, planks, and various pieces of iron.
After a while some of the pretorian leaders came, declaring that the
cohorts, pressed by the multitude, kept the line of battle with extreme
difficulty, and, being without orders to attack, they knew not what to
do.
“O gods,” said Nero, “what a night!” On one side a fire, on the other
a raging sea of people. And he fell to seeking expressions the most
splendid to describe the danger of the moment, but, seeing around him
alarmed looks and pale faces, he was frightened, with the others.
“Give me my dark mantle with a hood!” cried he; “must it come really to
battle?”
“Lord,” said Tigellinus, in an uncertain voice, “I have done what I
could, but danger is threatening. Speak, O lord, to the people, and make
them promises.”
“Shall Cæsar speak to the rabble? Let another do that in my name. Who
will undertake it?”
“I!” answered Petronius, calmly.
“Go, my friend; thou art most faithful to me in every necessity. Go, and
spare no promises.”
Petronius turned to the retinue with a careless, sarcastic expression,--
“Senators here present, also Piso, Nerva, and Senecio, follow me.”
Then he descended the aqueduct slowly. Those whom he had summoned
followed, not without hesitation, but with a certain confidence which
his calmness had given them. Petronius, halting at the foot of the
arches, gave command to bring him a white horse, and, mounting, rode on,
at the head of the cavalcade, between the deep ranks of pretorians,
to the black, howling multitude; he was unarmed, having only a slender
ivory cane which he carried habitually.
When he had ridden up, he pushed his horse into the throng. All around,
visible in the light of the burning, were upraised hands, armed with
every manner of weapon, inflamed eyes, sweating faces, bellowing and
foaming lips. A mad sea of people surrounded him and his attendants;
round about was a sea of heads, moving, roaring, dreadful.
The outbursts increased and became an unearthly roar; poles, forks,
and even swords were brandished above Petronius; grasping hands were
stretched toward his horse’s reins and toward him, but he rode farther;
cool, indifferent, contemptuous. At moments he struck the most insolent
heads with his cane, as if clearing a road for himself in an ordinary
crowd; and that confidence of his, that calmness, amazed the raging
rabble. They recognized him at length, and numerous voices began to
shout,--
“Petronius! Arbiter Elegantiarum! Petronius! Petronius!” was heard on
all sides. And as that name was repeated, the faces about became less
terrible, the uproar less savage: for that exquisite patrician, though
he had never striven for the favor of the populace, was still their
favorite. He passed for a humane and magnanimous man; and his popularity
had increased, especially since the affair of Pedanius Secundus, when
he spoke in favor of mitigating the cruel sentence condemning all the
slaves of that prefect to death. The slaves more especially loved
him thenceforward with that unbounded love which the oppressed or
unfortunate are accustomed to give those who show them even small
sympathy. Besides, in that moment was added curiosity as to what Cæsar’s
envoy would say, for no one doubted that Cæsar had sent him.
He removed his white toga, bordered with scarlet, raised it in the air,
and waved it above his head, in sign that he wished to speak.
“Silence! Silence!” cried the people on all sides.
After a while there was silence. Then he straightened himself on the
horse and said in a clear, firm voice,--
“Citizens, let those who hear me repeat my words to those who are more
distant, and bear yourselves, all of you, like men, not like beasts in
the arena.”
“We will, we will!”
“Then listen. The city will be rebuilt. The gardens of Lucullus,
Mæcenas, Cæsar, and Agrippina will be opened to you. To-morrow will
begin the distribution of wheat, wine, and olives, so that every man may
be full to the throat. Then Cæsar will have games for you, such as the
world has not seen yet; during these games banquets and gifts will be
given you. Ye will be richer after the fire than before it.”
A murmur answered him which spread from the centre in every direction,
as a wave rises on water in which a stone has been cast. Those nearer
repeated his words to those more distant. Afterward were heard here
and there shouts of anger or applause, which turned at length into one
universal call of “Panem et circenses!!!”
Petronius wrapped himself in his toga and listened for a time without
moving, resembling in his white garment a marble statue. The uproar
increased, drowned the roar of the fire, was answered from every
side and from ever-increasing distances. But evidently the envoy had
something to add, for he waited. Finally, commanding silence anew, he
cried,--“I promised you panem et circenses; and now give a shout in
honor of Cæsar, who feeds and clothes you; then go to sleep, dear
populace, for the dawn will begin before long.”
He turned his horse then, and, tapping lightly with his cane the heads
and faces of those who stood in his way, he rode slowly to the pretorian
ranks. Soon he was under the aqueduct. He found almost a panic above,
where they had not understood the shout “Panem et circenses,” and
supposed it to be a new outburst of rage. They had not even expected
that Petronius would save himself; so Nero, when he saw him, ran to the
steps, and with face pale from emotion, inquired,--
“Well, what are they doing? Is there a battle?”
Petronius drew air into his lungs, breathed deeply, and answered,--“By
Pollux! they are sweating! and such a stench! Will some one give me an
epilimma?--for I am faint.” Then he turned to Cæsar.
“I promised them,” said he, “wheat, olives, the opening of the gardens,
and games. They worship thee anew, and are howling in thy honor. Gods,
what a foul odor those plebeians have!”
“I had pretorians ready,” cried Tigellinus; “and hadst thou not quieted
them, the shouters would have been silenced forever. It is a pity,
Cæsar, that thou didst not let me use force.”
Petronius looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and added,--
“The chance is not lost. Thou mayst have to use it to-morrow.”
“No, no!” cried Cæsar, “I will give command to open the gardens to them,
and distribute wheat. Thanks to thee, Petronius, I will have games; and
that song, which I sang to-day, I will sing publicly.”
Then he placed his hands on the arbiter’s shoulder, was silent a moment,
and starting up at last inquired,--
“Tell me sincerely, how did I seem to thee while I was singing?”
“Thou wert worthy of the spectacle, and the spectacle was worthy of
thee,” said Petronius.
“But let us look at it again,” said he, turning to the fire, “and bid
farewell to ancient Rome.”