A few months after the retreat of Tiberius to Capri, Livia, his aged
mother, died at Rome. The news was quickly conveyed to Tiberius, but
he excused himself by letter for not immediately appearing at Rome, on
the ground that he was pressed with important business. He had never
spoken to Livia after she showed him the abusive letters of Augustus.
Such hatred did he still bear her that he daily put off going to Rome
to attend her funeral. Appeal after appeal was sent him to hasten, as
the burial could not longer be delayed. Finally he despatched Caligula
to deliver a eulogy in his stead. Out of respect for the wife of the
Divine Augustus, the Senate passed a resolution calling her the “Mother
of her Country.” This the hateful son would not allow. He even annulled
her will.
After her interment and Caligula’s return to Capri, the government
assumed a character of cruel and crushing despotism. Those who had
been friends of Livia were attacked and ruthlessly killed. Letters
of complaint were sent to the Senate charging Nero with “lewdness,”
Agrippina with a “turbulent and haughty spirit.” If people compared
these bloody times with the peaceful reign of Augustus, they were
killed. Innocent criticism was punished by death. Freedom of speech was
stifled. Everywhere in the city there was a feeling of distrust. The
streets of Rome appeared deserted. The surrounding towns and the villas
by the sea became crowded. But even here spies were continually on the
watch.
As if to increase the gloom that hung over the city, a horrible
catastrophe occurred at a small town near Rome, called Fidenae. In
this place a freedman had erected a large wooden amphitheatre, and
having gathered gladiators from all parts of the country, had promised
a wonderful exhibition. People flocked to the games and filled the
enormous structure. During the performance the supports gave way,
precipitating the great crowd to the ground. Few escaped injury, and
over thirty thousand perished. Nor was this all; for at Rome a violent
fire broke out which consumed all the houses and temples on the Coelian
Hill. The groan of the dying at Fidenae awakened no sympathy in the
breast of the tyrant at Capri; but after the terrible fire on the
Coelian Hill, the cries of the homeless touched his heart to such an
extent that he ordered the public money to be used in rebuilding the
devastated district.
Amid all these catastrophes Sejanus did not cease to execute his
infernal plots. His greatest desire had not yet been fulfilled. He
had removed only one obstacle from his path to ultimate power,--the
emperor’s son Drusus. By a stroke of good fortune, Tiberius had
withdrawn himself from the city. Agrippina and her sons were the last
remaining obstacles to be set aside. By artful and vicious enticing,
he seduced the wife of Drusus, making her, therefore, a spy upon her
husband. Through Livilla’s daughter, Julia, he became informed of
the innermost thoughts of Nero. Through the young wives of these two
princes he worked their destruction. What evidences of a treasonable
nature were lacking in the actions of Agrippina he supplied from his
fertile imagination. He made a last effort to entrap her. In the atrium
of her home, where he had many times before questioned her, he accosted
her.
“Thou art jubilant, O Agrippina,” he said. “Wherefore art thou so
happy?”
“I am not happy, O Sejanus, but I am less distrustful.”
“Still distrustful of me?” he asked; but receiving no reply, he added,
“What if I were to tell thee that the emperor is a prisoner?”
“What wouldst thou have me say?”
“Mayhap the time is now ripe for thee and thy sons to seize the
altars of the gods and cry unto the people for protection. Truly,
thou art now more free, for thou receivest again thy friends.
Nothing, O Agrippina, hinders thee now from seizing bolder and higher
associations. Come, be brave! With thy sons call upon the legions!
The power thou seekest is now within thy grasp! No one will hinder
thee! The Senate, the Roman people, the legions, ay, Sejanus and the
Praetorians will all espouse thy cause! Say but the word and thou shalt
rule!”
“Ah! O Sejanus, these are treasonable words! The honors of which thou
speakest are not to be seized by violence. Nay, when the gods see--”
“The gods help not those who supinely wait,” interrupted Sejanus. “Nay,
O daughter of the outraged Julia, nay, O mother of princes of celestial
blood, nay, thou, granddaughter of the Divine Augustus, what is now
required is action. Let Sejanus honor thee! Let the true friend of the
Julian family--the man whom thou seemest to reject as unworthy of thy
confidence--let him be the first to throw himself at the feet of the
mother of an emperor! Hesitate no longer, but give me thy orders!”
These words of Sejanus were spoken in such an earnest tone that
Agrippina was at first deceived. Gradually these treasonable utterances
awakened in her a sense of fear. She began to divine a sinister motive
in this seeming friendliness of her old enemy.
“What if thy words should be heard by others, O Sejanus?” she whispered
in alarm.
“Why should I care for informers, if I am trusted by thee and thy sons?
I have seen Nero but yesterday. I have spoken with Drusus. Messengers
await my command to carry orders to the legions. Everything, O noble
and worthy Agrippina, is ready and awaits thy consent!”
“O Sejanus, thy words ring with the sound of sincerity, but no violence
shall be done by me. If the people wish what thou sayest they do, let
them inform me through the mouths of my friends. I charge thee, speak
no more on this subject and excite not the ambition of my sons! Nay, O
Sejanus, the robes of loyalty are not always worn by those who speak
the loudest. If thou hast nothing better to offer than treasonable
words, thou art dismissed.”
The next report that was forwarded to the emperor contained the
treasonable words of Sejanus as having come from the lips of Agrippina.
Nero and Drusus were charged with sharing their mother’s traitorous
purposes. The fate of Agrippina and her sons awaited the final
judgment of the tyrant at Capri. Orders for their punishment were
immediately forwarded to Rome. The mother was banished to the island
of Pandataria, Nero was sent to the island of Ponza, and Drusus was
thrust into the dungeons on the Palatine Hill.
* * * * *
While the people of Rome were suffering under the tyranny of their
violent ruler, Psyche still remained in solitary confinement. Months
had passed, and the seasons with their varying colors had painted the
beautiful Campagna; but the young dancing-maiden had lost all idea of
time. Day after day, through the weary months, she had seen no one but
her deaf and dumb jailer. She had heard no voice but her own. However,
she lived in continual dread of another visit from Sejanus. She would
pace up and down her little cell; she would gaze for hours upon the
wide Campagna; she would sometimes sing an Homeric hymn; but the
monotony of her life weighed upon her like a heavy burden.
In her painful solitude, where no zephyrs wafted a human sound,
except her own sighs and sobs, where no revelations came to her but
in chimerical dreams, she lived like some beautiful flower that hangs
over a dark abyss. All the pure springs of her imagination, whether
flowing gently in soft but sombre shadows of love for her brother, in
calm shade for her parents, or in golden sunlight for her lover, lost
themselves in the main stream in the valley of oblivion.
The summits of the hills of solitude are first kissed by the purple
rays of religious light. They cleave the air like bold thoughts; they
repose in majesty like infinite and immutable truths. From their lofty
tops words lose their power to paint the revelations that come to the
soul. Burning upon altars on those lofty heights, the thoughts give
forth sweet incense mingled with profound prayers. Ay, on these altars
lambent flames of meditations mimic the light of the life-giving sun.
Ah! But there are also valleys of solitude where the sunlight never
enters, where the tears of cloudy days gather into one torrent and
violently score the river beds, where pale flowers struggle against
the cold breath from unsearchable caverns. There are solitudes which
humanity dares not enter. There is a solitude where the mind itself
evanesces,--the terrible solitude of oblivion.
Such a solitude was Psyche’s; and from her life all hope and joy had
fled. Her very dreams were beginning to vanish. Arid anguish pressed
her heart. Her ears like parched lips thirsted for words. Her eyes
like homesick souls longed for the light of the sun. Her existence was
immobile but living, like the silence on lips that are not dumb and
yet do not speak. Oh the silence of solitary confinement! Her life
was an ocean without a shore, overhung with sombre clouds. From time
to time there would appear on the waters a wave both long and low.
Only the ear accustomed to silence could hear that moaning note. It
sounded like a voice crying, with sad, monotonous iteration, the word
‘_ob-liv-i-on_.’
One evening when she had finished her meal, she heard some one speaking
in the corridor. These were the first words she had heard since the
visit of Sejanus. “What can it mean?” she asked herself. She heard the
key turn in the lock, and when the door was opened she saw a soldier.
“Prepare to leave at once,” he ordered.
“Then I am free!” she screamed with joy.
“Nay, thy prison is to be changed.”
“But where shall I go?” she asked nervously.
“Thou wilt leave Rome to-night with another prisoner.”