_AMUSEMENTS OF AN EMPEROR_
Οὐ παύσομαι τὰς Χάριτας
Μούσαις συγκαταμιγνύς.
EURIPIDES.
‘Esclave! apporte-moi des roses,
Le parfum des roses est doux.’
VICTOR HUGO.
Among the pleasant distractions of the villa, the dilettantism of
literature and art were not forgotten. Nero regarded it as one of his
serious occupations to practice singing and harp-playing. Afterwards,
when his friends gathered round him, they would write verses, or
recite, or lounge on purple couches, listening to Epaphroditus as he
read to them the last news from the teeming gossip of Rome. Satires
and scandalous stories often created a flutter of excitement in
the reception-rooms of the capital, and were keenly enjoyed by all,
except those, often entirely innocent and worthy persons, who were
perfectly defenceless against these calumnies, and felt them like
sparks of fire, or poisoned arrows rankling in the flesh.
One morning, when the stay of the courtiers at the villa was drawing
to a close, Epaphroditus announced to them that he had a sensation
for them of the first magnitude. The trifle which he would read
to them was perhaps a little broad in parts, but he was sure that
Cæsar would excuse it. It was called, he said, by a curious name,
_Apokolokyntosis_. This was in truth a clever invention of the
librarian 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 or
pumpkinification! One has heard of deification, but what on earth
does “gourdification” mean?’
‘Perhaps, Cæsar, in this instance it means the same thing,’ said
Epaphroditus; ‘but have I your permission to read it?’
The guests--Lucan among them--settled themselves in easy positions
and listened. The reader had not finished a dozen sentences before
they found that they were hearing the most daring and brilliant
satire which antiquity had as yet produced.
It was a satire on the death of Claudius, and it was not long before
peal after peal of astonished laughter rang from all the group.
It began by a jesting refusal to quote any authority for the events
the writer was going to relate. If any one wanted evidence he
referred to the senator who had sworn that he had seen Drusilla
mounting to heaven, and would be equally ready to swear that he
had seen Claudius stalking thitherward with unequal steps along the
Appian 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 described
as noontide, when Claudius was trying to die. Since he found it hard
to die, Mercury, who had always admired his learning, began to abuse
one of the Fates for keeping him alive for sixty-three years. Why
could not she allow the astrologers to be right for once, who had
been predicting his demise every month? Yet, no wonder! for how could
they cast the horoscope of a man so imperfect that he could hardly be
said to have ever been born? “I only meant,” pleads Clotho, “to keep
him alive a little longer, till he had made all the rest of the world
Roman citizens. But since you order it, he shall die.” Thereupon she
opened a casket, and took out three spindles--one on which was wound
the life-thread of Claudius, and on the other two those of the two
idiots, Augurinus and Baba, both of whom, she said, should die about
the same time, that Claudius might have fitting company.
‘She said, and broke short the royal period of stolid life.’ At
this point the author bursts into poetry, and describes how Lachesis
chooses a thread of gold instead of wool, and joyously weaves a web
of surpassing loveliness. The life it represents is to surpass the
years of Tithonus and of Nestor. Phœbus comes and cheers her on her
task with heavenly song, bidding her weave on.
‘Let him whose thread you are weaving,’ he sings, ‘exceed the space
of 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 the
weary, and shall burst the silence of the laws, like the rising of
the morning or the evening star, or of rosy dawn at sunrise. Such
a Cæsar is at hand, such a Nero shall Rome now behold! his bright
countenance beams with attempered lustre, and his neck is lovely
with its flowing locks!’ So sang Apollo, and Lachesis did even more
than he required. Meanwhile, Claudius died while listening to the
comedians. Then, after a touch of inconceivable coarseness, the
writer adds, ‘What happened on earth I need not tell you, for we none
of us forget our own felicity, but I will tell you what happened in
heaven.’ Jupiter is informed that a being is approaching who is tall,
grey-haired, and looks menacing, because he shakes his head and drags
his right foot. He is asked to what country he belongs, and returns
an entirely unintelligible answer in no distinguishable dialect. As
Hercules is a travelled person, Jupiter sends him to enquire to what
class of human beings the new-comer appertains. Hercules had never
seen 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, had
not 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 took
Rome.’ Claudius got into a rage at this, but no one could comprehend
his jargon; he had made a signal that Fever should be decapitated,
and one might have thought that all present were his freedmen, for no
one cared for what he said. Hercules addresses him in severe tones,
and Claudius says, ‘You of all the gods, Hercules, ought to know me
and support me, for I sat all July and August listening to lawyers
before your temple.’ A discussion follows, and then Jupiter asks
the gods how they will vote. Janus thinks there are too many gods
already. Godhead has become cheap of late. He votes that no more men
shall be made gods. Claudius, however, since he is akin to the divine
Augustus, and has himself made Livia a goddess, seems likely to gain
the majority of votes; but Augustus rises and pleads against this
strange 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 condemned
many unheard. Jupiter, who has reigned so many years, has only broken
one leg--the leg of Vulcan--and has once hung Juno from heaven:
but Claudius, inspired by female jealousies and the intrigues of a
varletry of pampered freedmen, has killed his wife, Messalina, and
a multitude of others. Who would believe that _they_ were gods, if
they made this portent a god? Rather let him be expelled from Olympus
within three days.’
Accordingly, Mercury puts a rope round his neck, and drags him
towards Tartarus. On the way they meet a vast crowd, who all rejoice
except a few lawyers. It was, in fact, the funeral procession of
Claudius himself, and he wants to stop and look at it; but Mercury
covers him with a veil, that no one may recognize him, and drags him
along. Narcissus had preceded him by a shorter route, and Mercury
bids the freedman hurry on to announce the advent of Claudius to the
shades. Narcissus speedily arrives among them, gouty though he was,
since the descent is steep, and shouts in a loud voice, ‘Claudius
Cæsar is coming.’ Immediately a crowd of shades shouts out, ‘We have
found him; let us rejoice!’ They advance to meet him--among them
Messalina and her lover, Mnester the pantomime, and numbers of his
kinsmen 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, who
killed us all?’ Pedo drags him before the judgment-seat of Æacus,
and accuses him on the Cornelian law of having put to death thirty
senators, three hundred and fifteen Roman knights, and two hundred
and twenty-one other persons. Claudius, terrified, looks round him
for an advocate, but does not see one. Publius Petronius wants to
plead for him, but is not allowed to do so. He is condemned. Deep
silence falls on them all, as they wait to hear his punishment. It
is to be as endless as that of Sisyphus, Tantalus, and Ixion; it is
to be a toil and a desire futile and frustrate and without end. He
is to throw dice forever in a dice-box without a bottom!
No sooner said than done! Claudius began at once to seek the dice,
which forever escaped him. Every time he attempted to throw them they
slipped through, and the throw, though constantly attempted, could
never be performed.
Then all of a sudden appears Caligula, and demands that Claudius
should be recognised as his slave. He produces witnesses who swear
that 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 the
audacity and wit--written as it was within a year of events which
the Roman Senate and Roman people professed to regard as profoundly
solemn.
Nero was convulsed with laughter throughout, and was equally
delighted by the insults upon his predecessor and the flattery of
himself.
When the speaker’s voice ceased, a burst of applause came from the
lips of the hearers; and Lucan turned to the gratified Nero and
repeated 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 hand
over the soft golden hair which flowed over the neck of the proud
and happy youth.
‘How witty it is, and how powerful!’ said Petronius. ‘Who could have
written it?’
Lucan gave a meaning smile. He had not been dismissed from the Villa
Castor with the other guests, because the Emperor, although jealous
of him, could not help admiring his fiery, original, and declamatory
genius.
‘You smile, Lucan,’ said Otho; ‘surely your uncle Seneca--that grave
and stately philosopher--could not have written this sparkling farce?’
‘Seneca?’ said Vestinus; ‘what, he who grovelled at the feet of the
freedman Polybius, and told him that the one supreme consolation to
him for the loss of his wife would be the divine beneficence of the
Pumpkinity whom here he paints as an imbecile slaverer?’
‘I think Seneca deserves to be brought up on a charge of treason, if
he really wrote it,’ said Tigellinus.
‘Nonsense, Tigellinus,’ said Petronius; ‘you need not be so
sanguinary. The thing is but a jest, after all. On the stage we
allow the freest and broadest jokes against the twelve greater gods,
and even the Capitoline Jupiter; why should not a wit jest harmlessly
upon 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 of
fact, he believed that the brochure had been written by his own
father, Marcus Annæus Mela, but he felt it desirable that the secret
should 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 an
aureus,’ answered the Spaniard. He looked full at Tigellinus, who
remembered the scene, and put it down in his note-book for the day
of vengeance.
But Petronius loved elegance, and did not care for quarrels, and he
tried to turn the conversation from unpleasant subjects. ‘Lucan,’ he
asked, ‘have you written any verses about Nero? If so, pray let us
have the pleasure of hearing them.’
Lucan was far from unwilling to show that he too could flatter, and
he 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 obtained
a Nero; and he begs him to be careful what part of Olympus he chooses
for his future residence, lest the burden of his greatness should
disturb the equilibrium of the world![39]
Nero had just heard the deification of Claudius torn to shreds with
mortal sarcasm, but his own vanity was impervious to any wound, and
he eagerly drank in the adulation which--with no more sincerity than
that which had been addressed to his predecessor by the Senate and
people of Rome--assured him of the honour of plenary divinity among
the deities of heaven in whom, nevertheless, he scarcely even
affected to believe.
He turned to Petronius and asked him to recite his poem on the
Sack of Troy. Petronius did so, and the Emperor listened with eager
interest. It was a subject which fascinated him.
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘to see a city in flames--that would be worth living
for! I have tried to write something on that subject myself.’
All present, of course, pressed him to favour them with his poem, and
after a little feminine show of reluctance, and many protestations of
mock modesty, he read them, in an affected voice, some verses which
were marked in every phrase by the falsetto of the age. It was
evident that they had been painfully elaborated. Indeed, as they
looked at the note-book from which the Emperor read they saw that the
_labor limæ_ had been by no means wanting. The book, which afterwards
fell into the hands of Suetonius, was scratched and scrawled over
in every direction, and it showed that many a turn of expression
had been altered twenty times before it became tinkling enough and
fantastic enough to suit Nero’s taste. It was clear from the tone
in which he read them that the most bizarre lines were exactly those
that pleased him best, and they were therefore the ones which his
flatterers 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 and
praise 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 are
forgotten.’
The young poet only shrugged his shoulders, and turned on the
adventurer a glance of disdain. Petronius, however, who disliked and
despised 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 nonsense
on your part to pretend to know anything about poetry! You know even
less than Calvisius Sabinus, who confounds Achilles with Ulysses, and
has bought ten slaves who know all the poets by heart to prompt him
when 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 daring
image.’
‘There is something finer than both,’ said Petronius, and he quoted a
line of real beauty which Seneca has preserved for us in his ‘Natural
Questions,’ and in which Nero describes the ruffled iridescence of a
dove’s neck:
‘Fair Cytherea’s startled doves illume
With sheeny lustre every glancing plume.’[41]
‘Many,’ said the polished courtier, ‘have seen the mingled amethyst
and emerald on the necks of doves and peacocks, but it has been
reserved 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 he
knew to be genuinely good-natured--were only fooling him to the top
of his bent. Not that this misgiving at all disturbed his conceit. He
was convinced that he was a first-rate poet, as well as a first-rate
singer 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 were
only _pretending_ to recognise his enormous merits, that was simply
the result of their jealousy.
‘Thank you, friends,’ he said. ‘What you say of me, Lucan, is very
kind, but’--he felt it necessary to show his superiority by a little
criticism--‘I should not recommend you to publish your poem just yet.
It is crude in parts. It is too Spanish and provincial. It wants a
great deal of polishing before it can reach the æsthetic standard.’
Lucan bowed, and bit his lip. He felt that among these poetasters he
was like a Triton among minnows, and his sense of mortification was
so bitter that he could not trust himself to speak, lest he should
risk 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 of
Persius and Lucan as poets?’
‘Lucan is more of a rhetorician than a poet,’ said Petronius, ‘and
Persius more of a Stoic pedagogue. Both have merits, but neither
of 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, sorely
thirsting for a compliment.
‘A Cæsar must be supreme in all he does,’ said Petronius, with one of
his enigmatical smiles.
He rose, and bowed as he left the room, leaving Nero puzzled and
dissatisfied.
‘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 is
jealous of you. When I see you on the stage, moving the people at
your will to tears or to laughter, or kindling them to the most
delicious emotions--when I hear the roar of applause which greets you
as you stand forth in all your grace, and make the huge theatre ring
with your fine penetrating voice, I often wish we could change our
parts, and I be the actor, and you the Emperor.’
‘You mock a poor mummer, Cæsar,’ said Paris; ‘but if I am to amuse
you after the banquet to-night you must let me go and arrange
something with Aliturus.’
Nero was left alone with Tigellinus. He yawned wearily. ‘How tedious
all life is!’ he said. ‘Well, never mind, there is the banquet of the
night to look forward to.’
‘Yes,’ said Tigellinus, ‘and when we are heated with wine we will
wander out into the grounds; and in the caves and winding pathways
Petronius 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 comes
Rome again, and all the boredom of the Senate, and of hearing causes,
and entertaining dull people of consequence. And there I must more or
less play at propriety.’
‘Why must you, Cæsar? Cannot you do exactly as you like? Who is there
to 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 of
Britannicus. I have reason to believe that she is also plotting to
secure the elevation of Rubellius Plautus or Sulla. She is not at all
too old to marry either of them, and both of them have imperial blood
in their veins.’
‘Rubellius Plautus?’ asked Nero; ‘why, he is a peaceful pedant. And
that miserable creature Sulla cares for nothing but his dinner.’
‘We shall see in time,’ said Tigellinus; ‘but meanwhile, so long as
Britannicus lives--’
‘Finish your sentence.’
‘So long as Britannicus lives, Nero is not safe.’
Nero sank into a gloomy reverie. He had not suspected that the
dark-eyed adventurer had designs as deep as those of Sejanus himself.
That guilty and intriguing minister of Tiberius was only a Roman
knight, and the whole family of Germanicus, as well as the son and
the grandson of Drusus, stood in the direct line of descent as heirs
to the throne. Yet he had for years worked on with the deliberate
intention of clearing every one of them from his path, and climbing
to that throne himself.
Why should not Tigellinus follow a similar[*4] course? He had
persuaded Nero that he knew something about soldiership. He had
made himself popular among the Prætorian guards. Burrus might be
got rid of, and Tigellinus, by pandering to Nero’s worst instincts,
encouraging his alarms, and awakening his jealousies, might come to
be accepted as an indispensable guardian of his interests, and so be
made the Prætorian Præfect. Once let him gain that position, and he
might 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. Plautus
and Sulla might wait, but nothing could be done till Britannicus was
put out of the way. It would then be more easy to deal with Agrippina
and with Octavia.
So he devised; and the spirits of evil laughed, knowing that he was
but paving the road for his own headlong destruction.
But that night no one was gayer and more smiling than he at the soft
Ionian festival, where they were waited on by boys robed in white and
crowned with roses. It had been spread in the _viridarium_, a green
garden surrounded by trees cut and twisted into quaint shapes of
birds and beasts by the _ars topiaria_. The larger dishes were spread
on the marble rim of a fountain, while the smaller ones floated among
the water-lilies in vessels made in the shape of birds or fish. By
one novel and horrible refinement of luxury, a fish was caught and
boiled alive during the feast in a transparent vase, that the guests
might watch its dying gleams of ruby and emerald. When the drinking
was finished they went into the groves and gardens of the villa,
and the surprise which had been prepared for Nero was a loose sylvan
pageant. Every grove and cavern and winding walk had been illuminated
at twilight by lamps which hung from tree to tree. In the open spaces
naiads were bathing in the lake, and leaving trails of light in
the water, and uplifting their white arms, which glittered like
gold in the moonlight; and youths with torches sprang out of the
lurking-places dressed like fauns or satyrs, and danced with maidens
in the guise of hamadryads, and crowned the guests with flowers, and
led them to new dances and new orgies and new revelries, while their
cries and songs woke innumerable echoes, which mocked the insulted
majesty of the night.
* * * * *
And in those very caves, four hundred years later, there came and
lived a boy a little younger than Nero was, and amid the pleasances
of the villas, which had fallen to ruin, and in the lonely caverns
high up among the hills, he made his solitary home. He had deserted
the world, disgusted and disillusioned with the wickedness of Rome.
And once, when the passions of the flesh seemed to threaten him, he
rushed out of his cave and rolled his naked body on the thorns where
now the roses grow. And multitudes were struck by his holiness and
self-devotion, and monasteries rose on every crag, and the scene,
once desecrated by the enchantments of the sorceress Sense, was
purified by the feet of saintly men, and the cavern where young
slaves had lurked in the guise of the demons of the Gentiles is now
called the Holy Cave.
That boy of fourteen was Benedict. The name of Nero has rotted
for more than eighteen centuries, but to this day the memory of
St. Benedict is fragrant as his own roses; for
‘Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.’