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_ AT first the revolt of the Gallic legions under Vindex did not seem
very serious. Caesar was only in his thirty-first year, and no one
was bold enough to hope that the world could be freed so soon
from the nightmare which was stifling it. Men remembered that
revolts had occurred more than once among the legions, -- they
had occurred in previous reigns, -- revolts, however, which passed
without involving a change of government; as during the reign of
Tiberius, Drusus put down the revolt of the Pannonian legions.
"Who," said the people, "can take the government after Nero, since
all the descendants of the divine Augustus have perished?" Others,
looking at the Colossus, imagined him a Hercules, and thought that
no force could break such power. There were those even who since
he went to Acima were sorry for him, because Helius and
Polythetes, to whom he left the government of Rome and Italy,
governed more murderously than he had.
No one was sure of life or property. Law ceased to protect. Human
dignity and virtue had perished, family bonds existed no longer,
and degraded hearts did not even dare to admit hope. From Greece
came accounts of the incomparable triumphs of Caesar, of the
thousands of crowns which he had won, the thousands of
competitors whom he had vanquished. The world seemed to be
one orgy of buffoonery and blood; but at the same time the opinion
was fixed that virtue and deeds of dignity had ceased, that the time
of dancing and music, of profligacy, of blood, had come, and that
life must flow on for the future in that way. Caesar himself, to
whom rebellion opened the road to new robberies, was not
concerned much about the revolt of the legions and Vindex; he
even expressed his delight on that subject frequently. He did not
wish to leave Achaea even; and only when Helius informed him
that further delay might cause the loss of dominion did he move to
Naples.
There he played and sang, neglecting news of events of growing
danger. In vain did Tigellinus explain to him that former rebellions
of legions had no leaders, while at the head of affairs this time was
a man descended from the ancient kings of Gaul and Aquitania, a
famous and tried soldier. "Here," answered Nero, "the Greeks
listen to me, -- the Greeks, who alone know how to listen, and who
alone are worthy of my song." He said that his first duty was art
and glory. But when at last the news came that Vindex had
proclaimed him a wretched artist, he sprang up and moved toward
Rome. The wounds inflicted by Petronius, and healed by his stay
in Greece, opened in his heart anew, and he wished to seek
retribution from the Senate for such unheard-of injustice.
On the road he saw a group cast in bronze, representing a Gallic
warrior as overcome by a Roman knight; he considered that a good
omen, and thenceforward, if he mentioned the rebellious legions
and Vindex, it was only to ridicule them. His entrance to the city
surpassed all that had been witnessed earlier. He entered in the
chariot used by Augustus in his triumph. One arch of the Circus
was destroyed to give a road to the procession. The Senate,
knights, and innumerable throngs of people went forth to meet
him. The walls trembled from shouts of "Hail, Augustus! Hail,
Hercules! Hail, divinity, the incomparable, the Olympian, the
Pythian, the immortal!" Behind him were borne the crowns, the
names of cities in which he had triumphed; and on tablets were
inscribed the names of the masters whom he had vanquished. Nero
himself was intoxicated with delight, and with emotion he asked
the Augustians who stood around him, "What was the triumph of
Julius compared with this?" The idea that any mortal should dare
to raise a hand on such a demigod did not enter his head. He felt
himself really Olympian, and therefore safe. The excitement and
the madness of the crowd roused his own madness. In fact, it
might seem in the day of that triumph that not merely Caesar and
the city, but the world, had lost its senses.
Through the flowers and the piles of wreaths no one could see the
precipice. Still that same evening columns and walls of temples
were covered with inscriprions, describing Nero's crimes,
threatening him with coming vengeance, and ridiculing him as an
artist. From mouth to mouth went the phrase, "He sang till he
roused the Gauls." Alarming news made the rounds of the city, and
reached enormoua measures. Alarm seized the Augustians. People,
uncertain of the future, dazed not express hopes or wishes; they
hardly dared to feel or think.
But he went on living only in the theatre and music. Instruments
newly invented occupied him, and a new water-organ, of which
trials were made on the Palatine. With childish mind, incapable of
plan or action, he imagined that he could ward off danger by
promises of spectacles and theatrical exhibitions reaching far into
the future, Persons nearest him, seeing that instead of providing
means and an army, he was merely searching for expressions to
depict the danger graphically, began to lose their heads. Others
thought that he was simply deafening himself and others with
quotations, while in his soul he was alarmed and terrified. In fact,
his acts became feverish. Every day a thousand new plans flew
through his head. At times he sprang up to rush out against danger;
gave command to pack up his lutes and citharae, to arm the young
slave women as Amazons, and lead the legions to the East. Again
he thought to finish the rebellion of the Gallic legions, not with
war, but with song; and his soul laughed at the spectacle which
was to follow his conquest of the soldiers by song. The legionaries
would surround him with tears m their eyes; he would sing to them
an epinicium, after which the golden epoch would begin for him
and for Rome. At one time he called for blood; at another he
declared that he would be satisfied with governing in Egypt. He
recalled the prediction which promised him lordship in Jerusalem,
and he was moved by the thought that as a wandering minstrel he
would earn his daily bread, -- that cities and countries would honor
in him, not Caesar, the lord of the earth, but a poet whose like the
world had not produced before. And so he struggled, raged, played,
sang, changed his plan, changed his quotations, changed his life
and the world into a dream absurd, fantastic, dreadful, into an
uproarious hunt composed of unnatural expressions, bad verses,
groans, tears, and blood; but meanwhile the cloud in the west was
increasing and thickening every day. The measure was exceeded;
the insane comedy was nearing its end.
When news that Galba and Spain had joined the uprising came to
his ears, he fell into rage and madness. He broke goblets,
overturned the table at a feast, and issued orders which neither
Helius nor Tigeliinus himself dared to execute. To kill Gauls
resident in Rome, fire the city a second time, let out the wild
beasts, and transfer the capital to Alexandria seemed to him great,
astonishing, and easy. But the days of his dominion had passed,
and even those who shared in his former crimes began to look on
him as a madman.
The death of Vindex, and disagreement in the revolting legions
seemed, however, to turn the scale to his side. Again new feasts,
new triumphs, and new sentences were issued in Rome, till a
certain night when a messenger rushed up on a foaming horse,
with the news that in the city itself the soldiers had raised the
standard of revolt, and proclaimed Galba Caesar.
Nero was asleep when the messenger came; but when he woke he
called in vain for the night-guard, which watched at the entrance to
his chambers. The palace was empty. Slaves were plundering in
the most distant corners that which could be taken most quickly.
But the sight of Nero frightened them; he wandered alone through
the palace, filling it with cries of despair and fear.
At last his freedmen, Phaon, Sporus, and Epaphroditus, came to
his rescue. They wished him to flee, and said that there was no
time to be lost; but he deceived himself still. If he should dress in
mourning and speak to the Senate, would it resist his prayers and
eloquence? If he should use all his eloquence, his rhetoric and skill
of an actor, would any one on earth have power to resist him?
Would they not give him even the prefecture of Egypt?
The freedmen, accustomed to flatter, had not the boldness yet to
refuse him directly; they only warned him that before he could
reach the Forum the people would tear him to pieces, and declared
that if he did not mount his horse immediately, they too would
desert him.
Phaon offered refuge in his villa outside the Nomentan Gate. After
a while they mounted horses, and, covering Nero's head with a
mantle, they galloped off toward the edge of the city. The night
was growing pale. But on the streets there was a movement which
showed the exceptional nature of the time. Soldiers, now singly
and now in small groups, were scattered through the city. Not far
from the camp Caesar's horse sprang aside suddenly at sight of a
corpse. The mantle slipped from his head; a soldier recognized
Nero, and, confused by the unexpected meeting, gave the military
salute. While passing the pretorian camp, they heard thundering
shouts in honor of Galba. Nero understood at last that the hour of
death was near. Terror and reproaches of conscience seized him.
He declared that he saw darkness in front of him in the form of a
black cloud. From that cloud came forth faces in which he saw his
mother, his wife, and his brother. His teeth were chattering from
fright; still his soul of a comedian found a kind of charm in thc
horror of thc moment. To be absolute lord of the earth and lose
all things, seemed to him the height of tragedy; and faithful to
himself, he played the first role to the end. A fever for quotations
took possession of him, and a passionate wish that those present
should preserve them for posterity. At moments he said that he
wished to die, and called for Spiculus, the most skilled of all
gladiators in killing. At moments he declaimed, "Mother, wife,
father, call me to death!" Flashes of hope rose in him, however,
from time to time, -- hope vain and childish. He knew that he was
going to death, and still he did not believe it.
They found the Nomentan Gate open. Going farther, they passed
near Ostrianum, where Peter had taught and baptized. At daybreak
they reached Phaon's villa.
There the freedmen hid from him no longer the fact that it was,
time to die. He gave command then to dig a grave, and lay on the
ground so that they might take accurate measurement. At sight of
the earth thrown up, however, terror seized him. His fat face
became pale, and on his forehead sweat stood like drops of dew in
the morning. He delayed. In a voice at once abject and theatrical,
he declared that the hour had not come yet; then he began again to
quote. At last he begged them to burn his body. "What an artist is
perishing!" repeated he, as if in amazement.
Meanwhile Phaon's messenger arrived with the announcement that
the Senate had issued the sentence that the "parricide" was to be
punished according to ancient custom.
"What is the ancient custom?" asked Nero, with whitened lips.
"They will fix thy neck in a fork, flog thee to death, and hurl thy
body into the Tiber," answered Epaphroditus, abruptly.
Nero drew aside the robe from his breast.
"It is time, then!" said he, looking into the sky. And he repeated
once more, "What an artist is perishing!"
At that moment the tramp of a horse was heard. That was the
centurion coming with soldiers for the head of Ahenobarbus.
"Hurry!" cried the freedmen.
Nero placed the knife to his neck, but pushed it only timidly. It
was clear that he would never have courage to thrust it in.
Epaphroditus pushed his hand suddenly, -- the knife sank to the
handle. Nero's eyes turned in his head, terrible, immense,
frightened.
"I bring thee life!" cried the centurion, entering.
"Too late!" said Nero, with a hoarse voice; then he added, --
"Here is faithfulness!"
In a twinkle death seized his head. Blood from his heavy neck
gushed in a dark stream on the flowers of the garden. His legs
kicked the ground, and he died.
On the morrow the faithful Acte wrapped his body in costly stuffs,
and burned him on a pile filled with perfumes.
And so Nero passed, as a whirlwind, as a storm, as a fire, as war or
death passes; but the basilica of Peter rules till now, from the
Vatican heights, the city, and the world.
Near the ancient Ports Capens stands to this day a little chapel
with the inscription, somewhat worn: Quo Vadis, Domine?
THE END.
Quo Vadis A Narrative of the Time of Nero,
by author Henryk Sienkiewicz. _
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