SHEATHED.
According to an Oriental legend, the dominion of Solomon over the spirits
resided in the power of his staff on which he stayed himself. So long as
he wielded that, none might disobey.
But the Jins sent a white ant up through the floor, that ate out the heart
of the rod, so that when he leaned on it, it gave way and resolved itself
into a cloud of fine powder. Solomon fell, and his authority was at an end
forever.
The termites that consumed the core of the sceptre of Nero were his own
vices and follies. Its power was at an end and his fall as sudden as in
the case of Solomon, and as unexpected.
In March he was possessed of dominion over the world, and was at the head
of incalculable forces. In June all was dissolved in the dust of decay; he
was prostrate, helpless, bereft of the shadow of authority, unable to
command a single slave. The first token of what was about to take place
was this.
In Rome the rabble was kept in good humor by the Cæsars distributing among
them bread gratis, and entertaining them with shows free of charge.
During the winter, contrary winds had delayed the corn-ships from Egypt,
and the amount of bread distributed was accordingly curtailed. Games were,
indeed, promised, but these would serve as condiments to the bread and not
as substitutes. Then a vessel arrived in port, and the hungry people
believed that she was laden with the wished-for corn. When, however, they
learned that her cargo was white sand for strewing the arena at the
sports, they broke into a storm of discontent and swept, howling insulting
words, under Nero’s windows.
Next day all Rome heard that Galba, at the head of the legions of Spain
and Gaul, was marching into Italy, and that none of the troops of Nero
sent to guard the frontier of the Alps would draw a sword in his defence.
The prince, now only seriously alarmed, bade his household guard conduct
him to Ostia, where he would mount the vessel that had discharged its load
of sand, and escape to Egypt. They contemptuously refused, and disbanded.
Then, in an agony of fear, Nero left the Palatine, and fled across the
river to the Servilian mansion that adjoined the racecourse, to light
which he had burned Christians swathed in tarred wraps.
There he found none save his secretary Epaphroditus, whom he had sent
there to be chained at the door, and to act as porter because he had
offended him. Guards, freedmen, courtiers, actors, all had taken to their
heels, but not before they had pillaged the palace.
He wandered about the house, knocking at every door, and nowhere meeting
with an answer.
Night by this time had settled in, murk and close, but at intervals
electric flashes shivered overhead.
Then suddenly the earth reeled, and there passed a sound as of chariot
wheels rolling heavily through the streets; yet the streets were deserted.
Trembling, despairing, Nero crouched on his bed, bit his nails till he had
gnawed them to the quick, then started up and hunted for his jewel case.
He would fly on foot, carrying that, hide in some hovel, till danger was
past. But a thievish slave had stolen it.
Sick at heart, picking, then biting at his nails, shrinking with
apprehension at the least noise, wrapping a kerchief about a finger where
blood came, he looked with dazed eyes at the red flare of the heavenly
fires pulsating through his open door.
He heard a step and ran out, to encounter a freedman, Phaon by name, who
was coming along the passage, holding aloft a torch, attended by two
slaves.
The wretched prince clung to him, and entreated that he might not be left
alone; that Phaon would protect him, and contrive a means of escape.
“Augustus!” answered the freedman, “I am not ungrateful for favors shown
me, but my assistance at this hour is unavailing. I am but one man, a
stranger, a Greek, and all Rome, all Italy, the entire world, have risen
against you.”
“I must fly. They will allow me to earn my livelihood on the stage. Of
what value to any man is my life?”
“My lord, in what value have you held the lives of the thousands that you
have taken? Each life cut off has raised against you a hundred enemies.
All will pursue, like a pack of hounds baying for the blood of him who
murdered their kinsfolk. Even now I passed one—Lucius Ælius Lamia,—and he
stayed me to inquire where you might be found. In his hand he held an
unsheathed sword.”
Nero shrieked out; then looked timidly about him, terrified at the sound
of his own voice.
“Let us hide. Disguise me. Get me a horse. I cannot run, I am too fat;
besides, I have on my felt slippers only.”
Phaon spoke to one of his slaves, and the man left.
“Master,” said the freedman, “Do not deceive yourself. There is no escape.
Prepare to die as a man. Slay yourself. It is not hard to die. Better so
fall than get into the hands of implacable enemies.”
“I cannot. I have not the courage. I will do it only when everything
fails. I have many theatrical wigs. I can paint my face.”
“Sire! the people are so wont to see your face besmeared with color, that
they are less likely to recognize a face bleached to tallow.”
“I have a broad-brimmed fisherman’s hat. I wear it against becoming
freckled. That will shade my face. Find me an ample cloak. Here, at
length, comes Sporus.”
An eunuch appeared in the doorway.
Breathless, in short, broken sentences, Nero entreated him to look out in
his wardrobe for a sorry mantle, and to bring it him.
“But whither will—can you go?” asked Phaon. “The Senate has been
assembled—it has been convoked for midnight to vote your deposition and
death.”
“I will go before it. Nay! I will haste to the Forum, I will mount the
Tribune. I will ask to be given the government of Egypt. That at least
will not be refused me.”
“My lord, the streets are filling with people. They will tear you to
pieces ere you reach the Forum.”
“Think you so! Why so? I have amused the people so well. Good Phaon, hire
me a swift galley, and I will take refuge with Tiridates. I restored to
him the crown of Armenia. He will not be ungrateful.”
“My lord, it will not be possible for you to leave Italy.”
“Then I will retire to a farm. I will grow cabbages and turnips. The god
Tiberius was fond of turnips. O Divine Powers that rule the fate of men!
shall I ever eat turnips again? Phaon, hide me for a season. Men’s minds
are changeable. They are heated now. They will cool to-morrow. They cannot
kill such a superlative artist as myself.”
“I have a villa between the Salarian and the Nomentane Roads. If it please
you to go thither——”
“At once. I think I hear horse-hoofs. O Phaon, save me!”
Sporus came up, offering an old moth-eaten cloak. The wardrobe had been
plundered, only the refuse had been abandoned.
A voice was heard pealing through the empty corridors: “Horses! horses at
the door!”
“Who calls so loud? Silence him. He will betray us!” said Nero. “Hah! It
is Epaphroditus.”
At the entrance, chained to a cumbrous log, was the Greek, Epaphroditus,
formerly a pampered favorite. But two days previously he had ventured to
correct a false quantity in some verses by his master, and Nero, in a
burst of resentment and mortified vanity, had ordered him to be fastened
to a beam as doorkeeper to the Servilian Palace.
“The horses are here,” shouted the freedman. “May it please my lord to
mount. Sporus and the slaves can run afoot.”
Nero unwound the kerchief from his hand and wrapped it about his throat,
drew the broad-brimmed hat over his head, enveloped himself in the blanket
cloak, and shuffled in his slippers to the door.
The chained Greek at once cried out: “Master! my chain has become
entangled and is so knotted that I cannot stir. I have been thus since
noon, and none have regarded me. I pray thee, let me go.”
“Thou fool! cease hallooing!” retorted Nero angrily. “Dost think I carry
about with me the key of thy shackles?” Then to those who followed, “Smite
him on the mouth and silence him, or he will call attention to me.”
“The gods smite thee!” yelled the scribe, striving to reach an upright
posture, but falling again, owing to the tangle in the links. “May they
blight thee as they have stricken Livia’s laurel!”(3)
Mounted on an old gray horse, Nero rode to the Ælian Bridge, where stands
now that of St. Angelo, crossed it and began to traverse the Campus
Martius.
Electric flashes quivered across the sky. Then again an earthquake made
the city rock as if drunk; the buildings were rent, and masses of cornice
fell down.
A glare of white lightning illumined the whole field and lighted up the
mausoleum of Augustus, and the blank faces of such men as were abroad.
The horse trembled and refused to move. It was some time before the alarm
of the brute could be allayed, and it could be coaxed to go forward and
begin the ascent of the Quirinal. The advance was slow; and Nero’s fears
became greater as the road approached the Prætorian Camp, and he expected
recognition by the sentinels. Yet in the midst of his fear wild flashes of
hope shot, and he said to Phaon:
“What think you, if I were to enter the camp? Surely the Prætorians would
rally about me, and I might dissolve the Senate.”
“Sire, they have destroyed your images, and have proclaimed Galba. They
would take off your head and set it on a pike.”
Nero uttered a groan, and kicked the flanks of his steed. At that moment a
passer-by saluted him.
“By the Immortals! I am recognized.”
“We have but to go a little further.”
“Phaon, what if the Senate declare me an enemy of the State?”
“Then you will fare in the customary manner.”
“How is that?”
The prince put his trembling hand to his brow and in his agitation knocked
off his hat.
The freedman picked it up.
“The customary manner, sire! your neck will be put in the cleft of a
forked stick and you will be beaten, lashed, kicked to death. Better take
the sword and fall on it.”
“Oh, Phaon! not yet! I cannot endure pain. I have a spring nail now—and it
hurts! it hurts!”
“Ride on, my lord; at the cypress hedge we will turn our horses loose, and
by a path through the fields reach my villa.”
Half an hour after Nero had left the Servilian palace, where now stands
the Lateran, Lamia arrived followed by two servants. He found the
secretary in a heap at the door, vainly writhing in his knotted chains.
Lamia at once asked him about the prince, whether he was there.
“I will both answer and show you whither he is fled,” said Epaphroditus,
“if you will release me. Otherwise my tongue is tied like my limbs.”
“Is he here?”
“Nay, he has been here, but is gone. Whither I alone can say. The price of
the information is release.”
“Tell me where I can find tools.”
Epaphroditus gave the required information and Lamia despatched a servant
to bring hammer and chisel. They were speedily produced; but some time was
taken up in cutting through the links.
This, however, was finally effected, and the secretary gathered up a
handful of the broken chain and clenched it in his fist.
“Now I will lead the way,” said he, stretching himself.
The wretched, fallen emperor had in the meanwhile scrambled through hedges
and waded through a marsh, and had at last found a temporary shelter in a
garden tool-house of the villa. Phaon feared to introduce him into his
house.
Wearied out, he cast himself on a sort of bier on which the gardeners
carried citron trees to and from the conservatory. The cloak had fallen
from him and lay on the soil.
His feet were muddy and bleeding. He had tried to eat some oat-cake that
had been offered him, but was unable to swallow.
He continued to be teased with, and to pick or bite at his spring nails.
“I hear steps!” he cried. “They will kill me!”
“Sire, play the man.”
Phaon offered him a couple of poniards.
Nero put the point of one to his breast, shrunk and threw it away.
“It is too blunt, it will not enter,” he said.
He tried the other and dropped it.
“It is over sharp. It cuts,” he said.
At that moment the door opened and Lamia and Epaphroditus entered.
Nero cried out and covered his face:
“Sporus! Phaon! one or both! kill yourselves and show me how to do it.”
“To do it!” said Lamia sternly. “That is not difficult. Do you need a
sword? Here is one—the sword of Corbulo.”
He extended the weapon to the prince, who accepted it with tremulous hand,
looking at Lamia with glassy eyes.
“Oh! a moment! I feel sick.”
Then Phaon said: “Sire—at once!”
Then Nero, with all power going out of his fingers, pointed the blade to
his throat.
“I cannot,” he gasped, “my hand is numb.”
Immediately, Epaphroditus with his hand full of chain, brought the
weighted fist against the haft, and drove the sword into the coward’s
throat.
He sank back on the bier.
Then Lamia stooped, gathered up the moth-eaten cloak, and threw it over
the face of the dying man.