CHAPTER XXIV

BRITANNICUS UNDERGOES A NEW EXPERIENCE

It was New Year’s Day in Rome. The day was kept as a universal holiday. Everybody aimed at cheerfulness, and abstained from any word of evil omen. Quarrels were suspended; calumny was hushed. Fires were kindled on every side, and fed with scented woods and leaves of odorous saffron. The gilded fretwork of every temple-roof glimmered with twinkling reflections of the sacred flames. All the people were clad in white, and went in procession to the Capitol. The lictors were provided with new fasces; the magistrates were clad in new purple, and assumed, for the first time, their curule chairs of ivory. The white oxen of Clitumnus were led for sacrifice to the altar of Jupiter, their necks wreathed with garlands. Friends exchanged presents, which, even when they were of trifling value, yet served to show that they had not forgotten to express their love. Among presents from Octavia, and Titus, and Pudens, and Pomponia, and other friends, Britannicus, who had now recovered, was greeted by Epictetus with the customary gift of gilded dates—called strenæ, whence the French étrennes—and a little honey in its snowy comb. These the poor lame boy had bought, with such copper coins as he had been able to save, at the little market for such trifles near the Porta Mugionis; and he had not forgotten to bring a few sprigs of vervain, good-naturedly given to him as an augury of blessing by one of the priests at the half-forgotten shrine of Vacuna, on the Sacred Way. But Britannicus had received more splendid presents than these. Agrippina had given him a double-branched silver candelabrum, up the shaft of which crept a wild-cat towards two unsuspecting birds perched on either dish above. But when he showed it to Octavia she shuddered. To her fancy it seemed as if Nero were the wild-cat, and herself and her brother the harmless birds.

Never had Britannicus and Octavia been more sad than in the days which followed Nero’s frustrated plots to assassinate his brother. They knew that further attempts would not be long delayed. On February 13 Britannicus would be fifteen years old, and it would be impossible to withhold from him the manly toga. But he felt sure that the sword was dangling by a hair over his neck, and that he would not long be suffered to live.

And thus, in the dawn of youth, he found himself in a situation so terrible that it has shaken the fortitude of many a full-grown man. Even the iron nerves of Cromwell were affected by the daily danger of assassination; and now Britannicus never sat down to a meal without dread of treachery, and never went to bed without a misgiving as to whether that sleep would not be his last. From the latter terror Titus relieved him as much as he could, by nightly drawing his own couch across the door. Onesimus had told Titus that if any deed of darkness were in immediate contemplation he would be almost sure to hear of it from Acte. Yet, in spite of all, the poor boy’s mind might have been unhinged by the secret and manifold dangers with which the hatred of the Emperor surrounded him, had it not been for the lessons which he had heard from the humble followers of the gospel. Never could he forget the awful expansion and dilatation of spirit which had accompanied the emotion he had experienced at the Christian gathering. At that moment he had felt a foretaste of immortality.

And, happily for the Empress and himself, there remained one more transcendent experience before the fall of the thunderbolt which separated them from each other.

The Ides of January were kept as a festival to Jupiter, and the next day was also the anniversary on which Octavianus had been saluted by the title of Augustus. The day was therefore observed with various ceremonies, and, as they were chiefly of a public character, it was easier for the children of Claudius to move about with less observation than usual. They had long desired to hear the words of one who had seen Jesus, and on the morning of January 14 a letter reached Octavia from Pomponia, conveying a cautious intimation that now their wish could be granted. Their young companion Flavius Clemens was to visit the Palace in the afternoon, and after they had supped with Aulus Plautius they were to arrange the way in which the rest of the evening should be spent.

When the supper was over, the two boys, Clemens and Britannicus, disguised in the dress of humble slaves, went with Pudens down the Velabrum and along the bank of the Tiber, which they crossed by the island and the Fabrician and Cestian bridges. The region in which they found themselves was poor and squalid, and was largely inhabited by Jews. The Jewish and Gentile Christians at this early period worshipped in separate communities, but they met together on so great an occasion as the visit of an Apostle. But the laws about assemblies and foreign superstitions were a two-edged sword which might easily be wielded with fatal effect, and it was desirable for the Christians to hold their gatherings with as little publicity as possible, in order to escape the hatred both of Jews and Pagans. This meeting, therefore, was to be held at a remote spot in the hollow of one of the arenariæ, or sand-pits, and those who attended it were to use one or other of the Christian watchwords. They were to approach the place in scattered groups and from different directions, while scouts were stationed in the neighbourhood to give instant signal of approaching danger.

Using these precautions, Britannicus and his attendants found themselves among the latest arrivals at the rendezvous. The winter darkness, deepened by the overhanging sides of the tufa quarry, rendered it necessary to have a few lights, but most of the assembled Christians extinguished or concealed their lamps. The dimness, the silence, the starry sky which overhung them, the strained expectation, the signs of intense devotion, made the scene overwhelming in its solemnity. At last a little group of the chief Christian presbyters, headed by Linus, was seen to approach. They passed under the shadow of the cliffs, and emerged before the table, on which one or two lamps were burning. Then the presbyters divided to the right and left hand, and the light fell full on the face and figure of one man who stepped a pace or two to the front.

He was dressed, as was not unusual at Rome, in Eastern costume. He was a man a little past the prime of life. The hair which escaped from under his turban was already sprinkled with grey. His dark eyes seemed to be lighted from within by a spiritual fire; his figure was commanding, his attitude full of dignity. His face was a perfect oval, and the features were of the finest type of Eastern manhood. When once you had gazed upon him it seemed impossible to take the eyes from a countenance so perfect in its light and spiritual beauty—a countenance in which a fiery vehemence was exquisitely tempered by a pathetic tenderness. His whole appearance was magnetic. It seemed to flash into all around him its own nobleness, and to kindle there that flame of love to God and man which burnt on the altar of his own heart. That such a soul should be convinced of a truth seemed alone sufficient to convince others. That such lips should testify to a fact rendered all disbelief of the fact impossible to those who once fell under his influence. That such a man could be the herald of a new religion seemed like a certain pledge that the faith which he held must sooner or later overcome the world.

In his aspect was something indescribably different from that worn by the noblest philosophers of Rome. On all sides, in the Roman amphitheatre and in the Roman streets, you saw faces which were cruel, and proud, and seamed with every evil passion; faces cunning, and sly, and leering, and degraded; the slavish faces of those who were slaves in soul, and the ignoble faces of those whom an ignoble society had cowed by its terror and degraded by its vice. Even in the Senate you saw noble lineaments on which servility, and care, and a life spent under tyrants and in households where every slave might be a potential enemy, had impressed the stamp of gloom and fear. But in the face of this Apostle there was softness as well as strength, and hope as well as courage. His eyes shone with a joy which seemed to brighten in the midst of affliction, as the stars brighten in the deepening twilight.

As he entered the whole assembly rose to their feet by a spontaneous movement of reverence, and then no less spontaneously some of those present fell upon their knees. But instantly his voice was heard, as, in an accent of command, almost of sternness, he bade them rise.

‘Rise,’ he said, ‘brethren and saints. What homage is this? We are men of like passions with yourselves. I do not mistake your feelings. Ye think that such reverence must be due to a disciple whom, unworthy as he was, yet Jesus loved. But know ye not that every true saint among you is nearer to Him now by His Spirit than it was possible for us to be in the days of His flesh? Has not our brother Paul taught you in his preaching that your bodies are temples of the Holy Ghost, who dwelleth in you, except ye be reprobate?’

Then Linus rose and said, ‘Let us kneel and thank God in prayer that He has suffered an Apostle of His Son to visit us, and then we will join in a common hymn.’

When the simple prayer was over they united their voices in that earliest Christian hymn which has been happily preserved for us by Clement of Alexandria. They began in accents soft and sweet and low—

Then the strain swelled louder—

They knelt down once more, and the strain of thanksgiving rose among them, with no confusion in its blended utterance, as they responded to the words of their bishop. And when the voices ceased Nereus, the slave of Pudens, said, after a brief pause, ‘O that John of Bethsaida would tell us first of that Resurrection whereof he is one of the appointed witnesses!’

John rose, and gave them the narrative which long years after he embodied in his Gospel.

He told them of the startling words of Mary of Magdala on that first glad Easter morning; and how he himself and Peter ran together to the empty tomb, ere yet they knew the Scripture that He must rise again from the dead.

He told them of the vision of angels which appeared in the tomb to Mary, and how Jesus had spoken to her in the garden.

He told of the appearance to the Ten, and the words of peace; and again, on the next Sunday, to the Eleven, when He convinced the doubting Thomas, and bade him to be not faithless, but believing.

He told them of the appearance on the shore of the misty silver sea, and of His last behest to Simon Peter; and he corrected the false impression as to what had been said concerning himself, which had not been, as had been mistakenly reported, that he should not die, but ‘If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?’

And as he spoke these words, in a voice which rose like a divine melody, the attention grew more and more rapt, and, as he ended, the awful, penetrating, thrilling sound of the tongue began to be heard. But John checked it by a gentle lifting of his hand, and Linus said, ‘Let the spirits of the prophets be subject to the prophets. Let us rather hear the witness of the Lord.’

Then Hermas, slave of Pedanius Secundus, the City Prætor, rose, and asked, ‘What meant the Lord by those words, “that he tarry till I come”? When should be the day of His coming?’

‘That question we also asked,’ said John, ‘before His death; and though He spake of signs of the times, like the redness and lowering of the sky, yet He added to us, “Of that day and that hour knoweth no man—no, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but the Father.”’

‘And are there no signs of the time now?’ asked Linus.

‘There are many,’ he answered, ‘by which we may know that the coming of the Lord is even at the door. I have walked through this Babylon, and have seen all the splendour of her merchandise, as of Tyrus in old days, and amid it all—slaves and souls of men. Yea, and as I have witnessed all the cruelty and all the vileness, like the scum of that seething caldron which the prophet saw of old, I feel compelled to ask with him, “Shall I not judge for these things?” saith the Lord; “shall not My soul be avenged on such a nation as this?” Yea, sometimes a voice seems to ring within me which says, “Woe, woe! to the dwellers upon earth!” The great tribulation must come of which the Lord spake and the Antichrist must be revealed, and God must accomplish the number of the elect.’

‘The night is drawing in, O brother, revered in the Lord,’ said Linus; ‘and it were well that we should speedily separate to our homes. But ere we part give to us one word of exhortation of how we are to save ourselves from this untoward generation.’

The Apostle raised his hands towards heaven, and his eye seemed to be lit with heavenly ecstasy as he answered in this brief exhortation: ‘My children, love one another. Love is the fulfilling of the law. There is no fear in love. Perfect love casteth out fear, because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love. And this commandment have we from Him, that he who loveth God love his brother also.’

When he had thus exhorted them they broke out with passionate jubilance in the hymn—

All present knelt in prayer, ending with the united utterance of the words that the Lord had taught; and the great Amen rose like the low sound of distant thunder. Then the Apostle raised his hands and blessed them. Again the Amen and the solemn Maranatha rolled through the air like the sound of mighty waters, and after a moment of deep stillness the assembly peaceably departed.

Britannicus and his attendants, wishing to avoid notice, waited for a time, until the twinkling streams of light from the torches and lanterns carried by the worshippers grew fainter and more scattered. Hence it happened that they were left the last in the arenaria, except the little group of deacons and presbyters who stood round John of Bethsaida. The young prince had been deeply moved by the look and by the words of the Beloved Disciple. He wished to see him nearer, and whispered to Pudens not to go until he had passed them, for never yet had he seen so glorious a specimen of lofty and holy manhood.

But the boy’s heart thrilled with strange emotion as the Apostle paused on his way, and, standing before the little group, fixed his eyes upon his face, approached him, and softly laid his hand upon his shoulder.

He motioned to all except Flavius Clemens to stand aside, and he was left speaking to the two youths.

‘My sons,’ he asked, ‘do ye believe in the Lord Jesus Christ?’

The youths were silent, till Britannicus, who felt in his heart the confidence of an exceeding peace, said—

‘My father, I know not. All that you have said to us is beautiful as a song of heaven. It stirs my heart; it seems to give wings to my spirit; but I know too little, and all is yet too strange.’

‘My son,’ said the Apostle, ‘go in peace. It is given me to know who thou art; thy slave’s attire does not conceal thee from me. Nay, start not; none else shall know. But the seed hath been sown in thy young heart; it shall blossom and bear fruit in a life beyond. For there is a baptism, not of water only, but of blood. Would to God that thou mightest remain for the furtherance of the kingdom of His Son; but it may not be. And my message to thee is, “Be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart, and put thou thy trust in the Lord.”’

He laid his right hand gently on the young prince’s head and blessed him, and his whole soul seemed to thrill under that holy touch.

‘And hast thou no word for me, my father?’ said Flavius Clemens.

The Apostle turned towards him, and kindly laying his left hand on the boy’s dark curls, he said—

‘I say to thee, as the Lord said to another, “And thou too, my son, when thou wast young, thou girdedst thyself and wentest whither thou wouldest; but when thou shalt be old another shall gird thee and carry thee whither thou wouldest not.” Thy life shall be prolonged, and thou shalt rise to great things; but thy heart shall be the Lord’s, and many a year hence thou too shalt be His witness. One of you shall see my face no more, but the Angel of His Presence bless you both.’

He spoke, and passed out of their sight into the gloom, leaving in their hearts a sound as of angelic music, a light as of purple wings. Neither of them spoke, or could speak. In silence and haste they made their way back over the dark flowing river to the house of Aulus Plautius. Flavius was conducted home by faithful Christian slaves, while the escort of the Empress accompanied her and her brother to the Palace, which still rang with sounds of revelry. And that night Titus wondered at the radiant serenity of the countenance of his friend, and Britannicus slept as sweetly as a child; and as he slumbered the spirits of the blessed dead seemed to keep guard over him, and he smiled to hear strange snatches of immortal melody.

CHAPTER XXV

LOCUSTA.

‘Circe inter vernas nota Neronis.’—Turnus, Fr.

Nero had been angered beyond measure by the failure of both his attempts upon the life of his brother, but he had also been a little terrified. A feeling of the eternal sanctity of the moral law had scarcely ever found a place in his slight and frivolous mind; but he was by no means free from superstition. He did not believe seriously in the gods; but he believed more or less in omens, and for a time he wavered in the dreadful purpose of committing his earliest unpardonable crime.

But he could not waver long. Britannicus was rapidly approaching his fifteenth year. It was evident that he was also developing new powers. He was already nearly as tall as Nero, and while Nero’s early beauty was beginning to fade the face of Britannicus became constantly nobler. All this Nero observed with deepening rancour, and to this was added a secret terror. He began to fear lest the Prætorians should find out their mistake in rejecting this princely boy for one who, in spite of his small accomplishments, was so far his inferior. He never visited Agrippina without noticing that in some way she regarded Britannicus, if not as the mainstay of her hopes, at least as the ultimate resource of her vengeance and despair.

But it was Sophonius Tigellinus who had the chief hand in goading Nero to the final consummation of his guilt. The Emperor was not by nature sanguinary; his cruelty was only developed amid the rank growth of his other vices.

He was planning with Tigellinus a banquet of unusual splendour which was to be held at the Feralia—the Roman All Souls’ Day, a festival in honour of the dead—on February 7.

‘You will have to give another banquet, Cæsar,’ said Tigellinus, ‘on the Ides (February 13).’

‘Why?’

‘Because that day is the fifteenth birthday of Britannicus; and I presume that then you will let him assume the manly toga.’

‘You are always dragging in the name of Britannicus,’ said Nero. ‘I hate it, and I hate him.’

‘On the contrary,’ said the Prætorian; ‘I should say that you love him very much. Who can tell how soon he may be your successor?’

‘My successor?’ answered Nero, scowling. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I meant no offence, Cæsar,’ said Tigellinus; ‘forgive the faithfulness of a friend and an honest soldier who loves you. Do you not see what a fine young fellow Britannicus is growing? Octavia brings you no children. He must in any case succeed you.’

Nero paced the room, as he always did when he felt agitated; and, after leaving his remarks to work, Tigellinus added—

‘Besides it is not easy to divine the plans of the Augusta, with whom at present you are on such bad terms?’

Nero strode up and down with still more passion, and Tigellinus continued at intervals to heap fuel on the flames of his fury.

‘You heard the murmurs of applause which greeted his insolent song the other night?’

Nero nodded.

‘Do you think that the Prætorians are absolutely loyal to you? I have heard them talking about Britannicus among themselves. Pudens, I know, is a favourite officer of theirs, and he adores Britannicus. Supposing it came to civil war, do you think that you would be quite sure to win?’

Nero still said nothing.

‘Why not put an end to the difficulty? Rome is sick at the thought of another civil war. Every one would be glad if you put your brother out of the way. And really, why should you hesitate? You have attempted it twice already, only you have been unlucky.’

By this time the subtle tempter had worked the Emperor into a frenzy of wrath and fear. The crime had long been assuming shape in his mind, and in point of fact he had already incurred its guilt.

‘It shall be done on the Ides,’ he said. ‘Send Julius Pollio to me.’

Tigellinus struck while the iron was hot, and the tribune was in attendance before Nero’s rage had had time to cool.

‘Bring Locusta here at once,’ he said.

The tribune executed the command, and Locusta’s green eye gleamed even more balefully than was its wont when the tribune ushered her into the Emperor’s chamber.

But Nero received them both with a burst of petulant anger.

‘You have failed me!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are traitors, both of you. While you are taking measures to shield yourselves you leave me obnoxious to the worst perils. I told you to provide me with a sure poison.’

‘We were but anxious to avert suspicion, Emperor,’ said Locusta, in the soft tones which involuntarily reminded the hearer of a serpent’s hiss. ‘You know there is a Julian law against murder and poisoning.’

The anger of Nero showed itself in mean, ignoble ways, and, like a bad boy in a passion, he was not ashamed to strike Locusta in the face.

‘Don’t talk of the Julian law to me, woman,’ he said; ‘as if I was afraid of the laws! Make me a poison which shall work like a dagger-stab, or you shall be ordered off for execution to-morrow on the old charges.’

Locusta shrank from his blow, and for one instant glared at him as though she would have liked to poison him. But she knew his power, and felt sure of his rewards; so she merely said—

‘Britannicus is such a strong, healthy boy, that the task is less easy. But Cæsar shall have his wish. I have a poison here which will do the work.’

‘Try it, then, on some animal,’ he said.

‘I dare say the tribune could procure me a kid,’ said Locusta.

A slave was despatched to find a kid, and when the bounding, playful creature was brought Locusta dropped some of the poison on a piece of bread dipped in milk.

The kid ate the bread and milk, and frisked no more but lay down and curled up its limbs, which quivered with convulsive twitchings.

‘Leave the poison to work,’ she said, ‘and if Cæsar will summon me an hour hence the kid will be dead.’

An hour later she was summoned. The kid lay on the ground, feeble and with glazing eyes; but it was not dead, and Nero was in the worst of humours. He pointed to the little creature and said—

‘Woman, you are trifling with me! Add henbane, or hemlock, or any other infernal thing you like, to your accursed poison. It must be made stronger.’

Locusta dropped other ingredients into the phial, and another animal was sent for. The slave brought a little pig. Some of the poison was sprinkled on a leaf of lettuce. The creature ate it, and in a few moments died in spasms.

‘That will do,’ said Nero, flinging to the woman a purse of gold. ‘If all goes as I desire, you shall have ample recompense. But breathe one syllable about this matter, and you shall die under the scourge.’

She went, leaving the phial in his hands. He struck a silver bell, and ordered Tigellinus to be summoned.

‘I have decided,’ he said to the Prætorian. ‘Britannicus shall die.’

‘You will deserve the title of “father of your country,” which you so modestly rejected,’ said Tigellinus. ‘Augustus received that title on the Nones of February, more than eighty years ago; doubtless the Senate will confer it upon you soon after the Ides.’

‘But how is the deed to be done?’ asked Nero gloomily. ‘I shrink from the business even if it be necessary.’

‘What are you afraid of, Cæsar?’

‘The voice of the people. It can shake the throne of the greatest.’

‘How will the people know anything about it?’

‘Britannicus has a prægustator, just as I and Agrippina have. If that wretch is poisoned too, every one will know what has taken place.’

‘His prægustator is—?’

‘A freedman named Syneros.’

‘In your pay, of course?’

Nero nodded.

‘And you can trust him?’

Nero nodded again.

‘Then leave the rest to me,’ said Tigellinus, ‘and do not trouble yourself any further in the matter. If I have your orders, regard the deed as done.’

‘I give no orders,’ said Nero; ‘but here is Locusta’s poison.’

---

Glad of her success in having twice saved the life of Britannicus, Acte was more than ever determined to be a watchful guardian over him. She was feverishly anxious to ascertain every plot formed against him, and had gone so far as to take a step of extreme peril. She had heard that, in the reign of Tiberius, when evidence had been wanted against the Consular Sabinus, three persons of no less rank than senator had concealed themselves in the roof, and looked down through Judas-holes, to report his conversation. Might she not use for good the devices which had been perverted to such deadly ends? At any rate she would try. She ascertained from Tigellinus that Nero had been amusing himself by trying the efficacy of certain poisons, and he mentioned this in answer to Acte’s inquiries as to the reason why his slaves had carried a dead kid out of Nero’s room.

But Acte learnt more by her other devices. The rooms which she occupied happened to adjoin the apartment assigned to Tigellinus; and by pretending a desire for some small repairs she had ordered the marble panelling of her room to be removed in one corner, and a cupboard to be constructed behind it. A person concealed in this recess could, by the aid of a few holes perforated in the walls, hear what was going on in the room of Tigellinus. Then she sent to Onesimus the coin on which was the head of Britannicus, and when he came to her room she concealed him in the recess, and he overheard enough to make him suspect that Britannicus was to be poisoned a week later.

The information was vague, and to act upon it was perilous; but Acte told Onesimus to inform Titus, and then to use their combined wit to defeat, at all costs, the wicked plan.

And this Onesimus meant to do, and might have done but for his own misconduct.

He was weak in character, and if he had gone astray in the safe obscurity of the house of Pudens he was liable to far worse temptations in the familia of the Palace. All his old companions cringed to the handsome slave of Octavia, who might rise, as others had done, to be an all-powerful freedman. With his youth, his quickness, his good looks, who could tell whether he might not even become a favourite of Cæsar himself, and have untold influence and power? Onesimus found himself the centre of flattering attention in the slave world both of the Palace and the city. He began to think himself a person of importance. Was he not under the immediate patronage of Acte, and, in order to avoid scandal, had it not even been necessary to make it known that he was her kinsman and foster-brother, brought up under the same roof?

Onesimus was too unstable to withstand the combined temptations by which he was surrounded. The image of Junia might have acted as an amulet, but he scarcely ever got an opportunity of seeing her, for Nereus looked upon him with anything but favour. He kept aloof from Christians, for he never heard them mentioned except with contempt and hatred, and he liked the atmosphere of compliment and pleasure. Slaves naturally imitate the vices of their masters, and the wicked world of the aristocracy was reflected in darker colours in the wicked world of servile myriads. Flinging all that he had learnt of morals to the winds, betting, gambling, frequenting the lewdest shows of the theatre and the most sanguinary spectacles of the games, and forever haunting the cook-shops, the taverns, and the Subura, he spent his almost unlimited leisure in that vicious idleness above which only the best slaves had strength to rise.

And so it happened that at the time when he ought to have been most on the alert he got entangled in a low dispute at a drinking bout, and returned to the Palace not only wounded and smeared with blood, but also in a state of shameful intoxication. In this guise Nero had seen him, and, without even knowing his name, or anything about him, had furiously ordered him to be taken to his steward, Callicles, for severe punishment. He had again been scourged, put into fetters, thrust into a prison, and fed on bread and water. This disgrace was concealed from Acte, and while she was relying upon his quick intelligence to convey a warning to Britannicus, and to devise means of frustrating the plot of Tigellinus, Onesimus lay sick, and shamed, and fettered in a prison among the lowest of offending slaves.

CHAPTER XXVI

A BANQUET AND A CONVERSATION

We are far more likely to underrate than to exaggerate the splendour of a great Cæsarean banquet. It differed wholly from the soft, luxurious, disreputable feast of voluptuous debauchees at which we have been present in the house of Otho. Nothing was allowed to disturb its magnificent decorum.

Nero’s feast was arranged in the highest style of imperial grandeur. Many a gilded and ivory lectica, borne by African slaves in rich liveries and surrounded by crowds of freedmen and clients, had been carried down the Sacred Way and the Street of Apollo; and if any distinguished nobles looked through the curtains the populace raised a cheer. The guests were set down under the great arch of the state entrance.

The noblest senators were there, and the representatives of the oldest families of Rome, and not a few who were destined to wear hereafter the purple shroud of imperial power. Most of them came dressed in togas of dazzling whiteness, and there were few who did not display the broad purple band of the senator, or at least the narrower band of the Roman knight. The knights were conspicuous by their large gold rings, the senators by the crescent of silver or of ivory which they wore in the front of their shoes. Those who, like Otho, were professional dandies were clothed in the most elaborate dresses, but nearly all the guests wore gay tunics under their white togas, which, during the banquet, they laid aside for the lighter and more elegant loose dress of green, violet, or other vernal colours. Nero himself received them in a paludament bordered with golden stars. Agrippina was dressed in robes of rich violet, and on her neck was a great opal from the spoils of Mithridates. Octavia had arrayed herself in one of the most costly dresses from the imperial wardrobe, and her stola was of that amethystine tint the use of which Nero afterwards reserved for himself alone.

But many of the other ladies were hardly less splendid in their attire. The necklaces which reached to their breasts had often as many as fifty fine rubies dependent from their links of gold. Some of them carried fans of peacocks’ feathers. Some were dressed in robes variegated with soft and brilliantly coloured plumage; the mantles of others had broad bands of gold sewed across the folds at the breast; others wore robes of interchanging sheen, or of the favourite mallow-colour, or Coan dresses of fine linen, woven with gold thread. The whole atrium looked like a bed of flowers, and even the pavement flashed with the light of jewelled feet.

When the guests entered the vast triclinium they were almost dazzled with the display of splendour which greeted them. Beautiful statues of youths stood round the room, holding in their hands lamps of gold, which filled the house with the fragrance of perfumed oil. Other cressets of fantastic workmanship hung by golden chains from the gilded fretwork of the roof, which was so constructed that its aspect and colouring could be altered between each course, and that scented essences and little presents of flowers and ornaments could be showered down upon the guests. The great triclinia and sigma-tables of Mauretanian citron and ivory blazed with gold and silver. The goblets from which the guests drank were enriched with gems. The oldest and richest wines of the Opimiam, Falernian, and Setine vintages stood cooling in vases full of snow, round which were twined wreaths of ivy and of roses. In front of Nero’s seat was a superb candelabrum of solid gold representing a tree with lamps hanging from its boughs like golden fruit. It belonged to the Palatine Temple of Apollo, and had been one of the spoils taken by Alexander the Great at the sack of Thebes.58 Among the other ornaments of the table were a handled vase of white and purple, for which Nero had paid a million sesterces, and the myrrhine goblet which alone Augustus had reserved for himself from the treasures of Cleopatra. There were also some of the vasa diatreta, curious triumphs of art in which a reticulated shell-work of pale blue was fastened by threads of glass to the opalescent vase within. Even the sawdust which was scattered over the polished floor was dyed with minium and breathed of saffron. Underneath the tables had been sprinkled a mixture of vervain and maidenhair, which was believed to promote hilarity in the guests.59 Vitellius, as he gloated on the veins of the thyine table at which he sat, and the glories with which it was laden, exclaimed, ‘If Jupiter and Nero were both to invite me to dinner, I should accept the invitation of Nero.’60

Even the ancients had a custom closely analogous to our ‘saying grace.’ Before the guests sat down, a number of boys, in white robes of byssus, placed upon the table figures of the lares, and carrying round a jar of wine, exclaimed, ‘May the gods be favourable!’

When the ice had been broken by the usual commonplaces, there was no lack of animated and even brilliant conversation among the most polished representatives of a society in which conversation was an art. Much of the talk, indeed, was trivial, and much was scandalous. This was the inevitable result of a tyranny which had driven even literature into such safe ineptitudes as the imaginary conversations between a mushroom and a fig-pecker, which had earned an immense reward from the Emperor Tiberius. Seneca, Burrus, and Pætus Thrasea, who were present and sat at the same sigma, talked on the foreign affairs of the Empire, canvassed the doings of Felix in Palestine and the movements of Tiridates in Armenia. Lucan was eagerly discussing with Otho the sources of the Nile. Not a few of the ladies were listening to stories of magic and vampires and were-wolves told them by travelled youths from Athens or Ephesus, and gossip amply filled up the talk of others.

Britannicus, with some of the youngest scions of noble families, sat, instead of reclining, at a lower table than the elder guests. Augustus had introduced, and Claudius had kept up, the custom of young guests dining on these public occasions in less state, and being served with a less luxurious meal.

The boy had no suspicion of danger, for Acte, though surprised not to have heard from Onesimus, did not know that her purpose had failed in consequence of the levity and folly of her foster-brother. The face of the young prince was radiant, for his heart was full of peace. His whole soul seemed to be expanded by the larger horizons which had opened before him since he had learnt about the truths and promises of the new faith. The light of the dawn, which shone for him upon the distant hills, seemed to shed its rays even upon the evil and troubled world. He maintained a pleasant talk, broken by many a happy and innocent laugh. His peril had been mercifully hidden from him, and on the previous night he had had a dream so happy, and so unlike anything which he had imagined as possible, that he hardly knew how to tell it to Titus and Clemens, who sat on either side of him.

In his dream he had seemed to himself to be sinking to sleep amid strains of melody more tender than any which he had ever heard. And, while his soul was thus lapped in Elysium, a winged youth, whose face looked pure as the flowers of spring, and whose wings were coloured like the rainbow, had come to him and offered him his choice between purple with a diadem, and a white robe with a wreath of lilies. He had chosen the white robe, and with a radiant smile the Vision dropped on the ground the purple robe, and Britannicus saw that it was rent with dagger-thrusts and stained with blood. Then the youth had taken Britannicus by the hand and led him through a vale of fire unhurt into a pleasant land beyond. Bright hands had there clothed him in the robe of shining white, and had placed the wreath of lilies round his hair. After that he looked up, and on every side of him were clouds of light, full of glittering faces; and two other winged youths grasped him by the hands, and led him along a vista of light towards a throne, which looked like a sapphire; but, before he could see who sat thereon, he awoke in such an ecstasy that he lay quivering with joy till the music and the fragrance died away. Never in all his life had he experienced such unutterable blessedness, and it seemed to him as if he could never be unhappy again.

But while Britannicus was thus supremely happy the lord of the banquet was miserable. How could he be happy? On one side of him reclined his mother, once so passionately fond of him, now bitter, furious, and sarcastic—a woman whose life was poisoned by the disappointment of her ambition. On the other side of him reclined his wife, Octavia, young, beautiful, not unaccomplished, but to him cold as death. He could buy the venal love of as many as he chose, but he could command no love that was not either purchasable or shameful. The fires of Tartarus were burning on the altar of his Penates, and his own heart was smouldering with secret crimes, which could only be shared with the most villainous or the most despicable of mankind.

And of all the guests how few were even tolerably happy, except one or two of the boys at the table of Britannicus! Under that thin film of iridescence what abysses of misery filled the Stygian pool of the society which lay beneath!

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Among the guests that night was the young king Herod Agrippa II. He sat in a conspicuous position at the highest table. As a boy he had been at Rome, but this was the first time that he had been present at any public gathering for many years. He had only just arrived on a mission from Palestine. He had inherited Chalcis, the little kingdom of his uncle Herod, but he was anxious to add to this domain the city of Tiberias and part of Galilee, where Herod Antipas had ruled, and this year the Emperor granted his wish. Nero had entrusted him to the care of Gallio, with whom he was eagerly conversing in Greek, and whom he overwhelmed with multitudes of questions. They spoke low, and, as they reclined at the banquet side by side, there was little chance of their being overheard, though their conversation was often of that kind which was the more interesting from its being somewhat dangerous.

‘How gay Cæsar’s guests must be,’ said Agrippa; ‘they are all smiles!’

‘It is with many of them the fixed smile of a mask,’ said Gallio. ‘They smile to hide their misery.’

It was necessary for the success of Agrippa’s mission that he should stand well at Rome, and know something about the chief members of Roman society. He therefore asked Gallio the names and history of some of the guests. We will follow his pointed fingers, and perhaps the answers of Gallio may enable us to realise something more of the condition of things in pagan Rome. For Gallio did not spare a single reputation. He did not require to invent. Malignity had no need to search with candles. She only had to tell the truth, and there were few guests there whose reputation did not wither at her breath.

Agrippa first wanted to know something about the ladies who were present, and Gallio drew caustic sketches of Poppæa, on whom Nero’s eyes were constantly fastened, and of Calvia Crispinilla. Agrippa’s attention was next attracted by Domitia Lepida, whose tutulus, or conical head-dress, it was the exclusive task of a slave-maiden to adorn.

‘That lady,’ said Gallio, ‘is the Emperor’s aunt. She used to neglect him, but now that he is Emperor she worships the very ground on which he treads.’

‘And who is that lady in the sea-green Coan dress whose hair seems to be powdered with gold dust?’

‘That is Junia Silana, nominally a bosom friend of Agrippina, really her deadliest enemy. Observe that lady near her, whose grey hairs are so elaborately dyed, and her cheeks so thickly rouged, and who is dressed with such juvenility. She is Ælia Catella. Would you believe that, though she is nearly eighty, she still dances?’

‘O tempora! O mores!’ said Agrippa. ‘That exclamation sufficed for Cicero a hundred years ago; but he would want stronger expletives now.’

‘I will give you Horace for your Cicero. Did he not sing—

‘Is there no honest and virtuous woman here?’ asked the young king.

Gallio pointed a little mockingly to the king’s sister, the beautiful Berenice, who had come with him to Rome. She was now twenty-six, but had lost none of her voluptuous loveliness. In her ears were earrings, each formed of three orient pearls, and the famous diamond on her finger—a gem of priceless value, her brother’s gift—blazed conspicuously at every movement of her hand.

Agrippa blushed and bit his lips; and Gallio always courteous, added with seriousness, ‘There are some, but not many. My brother, Seneca, is not complimentary to the ladies. He speaks of them as “animal impudens, ferum, cupiditatum incontinens,”61 which is, to say the least, ungrateful of him, for our mother, Helvia, was perfect; and our aunt, Marcia, gained him his earliest honours; and his own wife, Paulina—she sits there—is one of the Roman matrons who almost deserve the obsolete epitaph, “She stayed at home; she spun wool.” I think, however, that Seneca exaggerates the number of the ladies, who, he says, count the years not by the consuls, but by the number of their divorced husbands.’62

‘Point me to another such lady as Paulina,’ said Agrippa.

‘There is one,’ answered Gallio, bending his head towards the Empress Octavia; ‘and there is another.’ He pointed to a lady dressed simply in a white stola beneath a light-blue palla, who wore no jewels except the cameos which fastened the loops of her sleeve. It was Antistia, the wife of Antistius Verus, the daughter of Rubellius Plautus. ‘Antistia,’ said Gallio,T7 ‘is as pure and devoted a lady as you could find anywhere. There, too, sits Servilia, daughter of Barea Soranus; and yonder is Arria, wife of Pætus Thrasea. Pomponia Græcina, wife of Aulus Plautius, is the sweetest and noblest matron in Rome; but she avoids Court society, and she is not here. Nor is Claudia, the fairest of maidens, the daughter of King Caractacus.’

‘And who is that handsome and venerable old man at the second table?’

‘The handsome and venerable old man—his name is Domitius Afer—is, I am sorry to say, a handsome and venerable old scoundrel. He is, or rather was, the greatest orator of his day—as the Emperor Tiberius said, a born orator, suo jure disertus. But he has been neither more nor less than an informer, and one of bad character. He would have lost his head under Caligula, but he pretended to be so thunderstruck and overwhelmed by the mad Emperor’s eloquence that he not only saved his life but rose into high favour. But it is time for him to leave off making speeches. Whenever he attempts a great oration now, half his hearers laugh and the other half blush.’

‘And the young man near him?’

‘King,’ said Gallio, ‘I shall begin to think that you are a physiognomist, and are picking out some of the worst persons present. That is another informer; his name is M. Aquillius Regulus. He is a fortune-hunter as well as an informer. He has earned by infamy a fortune of sixty million sesterces. I had better tell you at once that there are several of them nearly as bad. That brazen-faced man is Suilius Nerulinus, who helped Messalina to ruin Valerius Asiaticus. He was convicted of taking bribes as a judge even in the reign of Tiberius. And, worst of the whole company, there is Eprius Marcellus, a splendid orator, but a man, as you see, of savage countenance, whose eyes flash their fiercest flame, and whose voice rolls its loudest thunder, when he is denouncing any person of special virtue.’

‘Well,’ said Agrippa, ‘unless I am tiring your courtesy I will turn to another table. Who is that extremely stout personage with a red face, bushy eyebrows, and apoplectic neck, who is devouring his dainties with such brutal voracity?’

‘He is a very distinguished person named Vitellius, chiefly distinguished, however, for eating and drinking. He is descended from a cobbler and a cook. He began his childhood with Tiberius at Capreæ. His father set up golden statues of the freedmen Narcissus and Pallas among his household gods, by which merit he won a statue on the rostra. Our friend then turned charioteer to please Gaius, gambler to please Claudius, and has now curried favour with Nero by urging him to sing. His domestic history is not amiable. He had by his first wife a son named Petronianus, to whom she left her wealth. Vitellius made him drink a cup of poison, which he says that the youth had prepared for him.’

‘I shall begin to believe,’ said Agrippa, ‘that the Greek sage was right when he said, “Most men are bad.” Why, Berytus would not show more dubious characters—nor even Jerusalem.’

‘But there are some honest men,’ said Gallio, ‘as well as virtuous women. Burrus is fairly honest; Fenius Rufus is indifferently honest; Pætus Thrasea is honest, though in these days even he has to dissemble; Helvidius Priscus, Barea Soranus, and Arulenus Rusticus, friends of Thrasea, are as honest as the day. So is that old man Lucius Saturninus, who, strange to say, in spite of his worth, has reached the age of ninety-three without being either killed or banished.’

‘I will only ask you one more name. Who is the man to whom Domitius Afer is talking?’

‘His name is Fabricius Veiento. At present he is only known as the editor of a book called “Codicilli,” which is immensely popular and is bringing him in a fortune. It is composed of the spiciest libels against every senator of note whom he ventures to attack. He has found that one secret of getting rich is to pander to the appetite for scandal, and half the people who are talking so fast around us are whispering stories which he has discovered or invented for them.’

At this moment their conversation was rudely interrupted.