 CHAPTER XXVIII. At last the hour of both the Apostles had come, but, as if to complete his work, it was given to the fishermen of the Lord to rescue two souls in his very prison. Two soldiers, Proscesus and Martinianus, his guards in the Mamerteen prison, were baptized by him, but the hour of torture was at hand. Nero was not in Rome at the time, sentence was passed by Helius and Polythetes to Friedman, to whom Caesar had entrusted the government of Rome in his absence. Peter was first flogged, according to law, and the next day was taken outside of the city walls toward the Vatican Hill where he was to suffer death on the cross. The soldiers were surprised at the numbers that gathered before the prison. They could not understand how the death of a common man and an alien could excite such interest. They knew not that this retinue was composed not of the merely curious, but of believers who wished to accompany the great apostle to the place of his execution. Last in the afternoon the gates of the prison were thrown open and Peter appeared in the midst of a detachment of Praetorians. The sun was already slanting towards Ostia. The day was clear and calm. Peter was not required to carry his cross, it was supposed that on account of his years he would not be able to support its weight. He walked slowly, the faithful could catch an unobstructed view of him. When his white head showed itself amid the iron helmets of the soldiers, a wail arose in the throng, but ceased almost immediately, because the face of the old man was so serene and shone with such joy that it seemed to all that this was not a victim going to his execution, but a conqueror celebrating his triumph. And such was really the case. The fishermen, usually humble and bent, now walked erect, towering above the soldiers and full of majesty. Never before had there been such dignity in his bearing. He looked like a monarch attended by the people and soldiers. From all sides came voices, Behold Peter going to the Lord! All seemed to forget that he was going to torture and to death. The crowd marched in a solemn concourse, feeling that since the death on Gogatha nothing so great had taken place, and that as the first sacrifice had redeemed the world, this was to redeem the city. People stopped on the road and gazed with wonder at the old man, but the faithful, placing hands upon one another's shoulders, said, Behold how a just man dies, one who knew the Lord and proclaimed love to the world! And those who had halted to gaze upon the apostle walked away, saying, Verily, this is not a criminal. Going the way the noises and the cries of the streets were hushed. The procession wound along by newly built houses and the white columns of temples, above which hung the deep blue sky, calm and serene. They moved in silence, save when, at times, the arms of the soldiers clashed, or the murmur of prayers arose. Peter caught the low-breathed prayers, and his face shown with an increasing delight, for his glance could hardly compass those thousands of believers. He felt that his work was crowned with triumph, and now he knew that the truth which he proclaimed all his life would overwhelm everything like a sea, and that nothing could restrain the waves. Thinking thus, he lifted up his eyes and said, O Lord, thou didst command me to conquer this city, which rules over the world, and I have subdued it! Thou didst command me to found thy capital in it, and I have done so! Now, O Lord, it is thy citadel, and I am going to thee, because my work is done!" As he passed by the temples he cried, Ye will become the temples of Christ! Gazing at the crowds of people that swarmed before his eyes, he said, Your children will be the servants of Christ! And he went on with the consciousness of victory achieved, aware of his services, aware of his power, calm and great. The soldiers took him across the Ponds Triumphalis, or Bridge of Triumph, as if unwittingly testifying to his triumph, and led him on toward the Nomecia and the Circus. The faithful from the trans-Tiber joined the procession, and swelled to such an extent that the Centurion who commanded the Praetorians, appreciating knew that he was escorting a high priest, surrounded by his congregation, grew alarmed because of the smallness of his force. With no cry of indignation or anger arose from the crowd, all felt the solemnity of the moment, and the faces of the believers were grave and expectant. Some of the faithful, recalling that at the death of the Savior the earth opened in terror, and the dead rose from their graves, thought that now some portents would appear, so that the death of the apostle would not be forgotten in the ages to come. Others said to themselves, Perhaps the Lord will choose the hour of Peter's death to descend upon the earth as he promised and judged the world. With this idea they commended themselves to the mercy of the Savior. All about there was a great calm. The hills appeared as if resting and basking in the sun. At length the procession stopped between the Circus and the Vatican hill. Some of the soldiers began now to dig a hole, others placed the cross and the hammers and nails upon the earth, waiting till all the preparations should be finished. The crowd, hushed and solemn, fell upon their knees. The apostle, his head glorified by the sun, turned for the last time toward the city. Far away below them the gleaming tiber could be seen. Beyond was the campus martyus. Higher up was the mausoleum of Augustus. Below were the great baths which Nero had just begun to build. Still lower was Pompey's theatre, and beyond them partly visible and partly screened by other buildings were the Septu Julia, a multitude of porticoes, temples, columns, towering edifices. Finally far away in the distance were the hills studded with houses whose summits faded away in the blue haze, the abodes of crime but of power, of madness but of order, all these forming the city which had become the throne of the world, its oppressor and yet its law and its peace, omnipotent, invincible, eternal. Peter, surrounded by the soldiers, gazed over this scene as a ruler and king looks upon his inheritance, and thus he addressed it, Thou art redeemed and mine. And no one there present, not merely among the soldiers digging the pit in which the cross was to be planted, but even among the faithful, could divine that the real ruler of that city stood amongst them, that caesars would pass away, that waves of barbarians would come and go, that ages would vanish, but that this old man would hold their uninterrupted sway. The sun slanted still more towards Ostia, and had become large and red, the whole western sky was bathed with the glow of the dying day, then the soldiers approached Peter to strip him of his garments, but he who had been bowed in prayer now suddenly stood erect and stretched forth his right hand. The executioners paused as if in awe at his attitude. The faithful scarce dared to breathe, thinking that he desired to speak. Unbroken silence prevailed, but he, standing on the height with his right hand extended, made the sign of the cross, blessing in the hour of his death, Erby et Orby, the city and the world. In that same beautiful evening another detachment of soldiers led along the Ostian Way, Paul of Tarsus, towards a place called Aquisalvii. He also was followed by a band of the faithful whom he had converted. Whenever he recognized a friend, he stopped and talked with him, for the guard treated him with greater consideration because he was a Roman citizen. Beyond the gate known as Turgemina he met Plotilla, the daughter of the prefect Flavius Sabinus, and noticing that her youthful face was wet with tears, he said, Plotilla, daughter of eternal salvation, depart in peace, only lend me your veil to cover my eyes as I go to the Lord. Taking the veil he went on with a face as full of joy as that of a laborer returning home after a day's toil. His thoughts, like those of Peter, were calm and serene as that evening sky. He gazed in thoughtful contemplation over the plain which extended before him and upon the albin hills bathed in light. He recalled his journey, his pains and labors, the trials he had overcome, the churches he had founded, in all lands and beyond all seas, and he felt that he had earned his rest, that his work was completed. He knew that the seed he had sown would not be scattered by the breath of malice. He was departing from this life with the certainty that the conflict against the world which the spreading of the truth had occasioned would result in victory. A peace beyond understanding filled his soul. The road to the place of execution was long, and the shades of evening were falling, the mountains became purple and their bases were gradually veiled in shadows, flocks were winding their homeward way, here and there groups of slaves walked along with their implements upon their shoulders. Children at play before the houses on the road looked with wonder at the soldiers. On that evening the transparent balmy air seemed filled with peace and harmony, which as it were rose from the earth and floated heavenward. And Paul felt this, and his heart was filled with joy at the thought that to this harmony of the earth he had added a note which did not exist before, but without which the whole earth was like sounding brass and tinkling cymbals. And he recalled how he had taught the people charity, how he had admonished them that though they should give all they possessed to the poor, and though they learned all languages, all mysteries and all sciences, they would be nothing without love, which is kind, patient, which does not return evil, does not crave honor, suffers all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures to the end. His whole life had been spent in teaching people this truth, and now he said within himself, What power can equal it? What power can conquer it? Can Caesar overcome it, though he had twice as many legions, twice as many cities, the seas and the lands and nations? And like a conqueror he went to his reward. The escort finally left the main road and turned eastward along the narrow path leading to the aqueous salviae. The red sun was lying low on the heather. The centurion halted the soldiers at the fountain, for the time had come. Paul threw Plotilla's veil over his arm, intending to cover his eyes with it, and for the last time he raised those eyes, filled with indescribable peace, towards the eternal light of the evening, and prayed. Yes, the hour had come, but now he saw before him a long road of light leading to heaven, and to himself he repeated the same words which formerly he had written in the consciousness of duty done and the end at hand. I have fought the good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness." CHAPTER XXIX In Rome madness still reigned, so that the erstwhile conqueror of the world began, through lack of a ruler, to crumble to pieces. Even before the last of the apostles had died there came the conspiracy of Piso, and after that such a merciless decapitation of the most prominent heads in Rome, that even those who looked upon Nero as a god began to see in him a god of destruction. The city was in mourning. Terror reigned in its houses and in all hearts. Yet the porticos were decorated with ivy and flowers, because it was not permitted to bewail the dead. When the people awoke in the morning they asked themselves whose turn it would be to-day, the retinue of ghosts following Caesar increased every day. Piso paid with his head for his conspiracy, and alike fate befell Seneca and Lucan, and Phineas Rufus, and Plautius Lepranus, and Flavius Skevinus, and Afranius Quinetianus, and the disillute companions of Caesar's followers Tullius Cinesio and Proculus, and Aurorecus and Cugorinus, and Gratus and Solanus, and Proximus and Sabrius Flavius, once entirely devoted to Nero and Sulpisius Asper. Some perished on account of their villainy, some by fear, some on account of their opulence, some because of their courage. Caesar, dismayed by the number of the conspirators, placed soldiers upon the walls, and held the city as if in a state of siege, sending out every day centurions bearing decrees of death to suspected houses, the condemned humbly bowed to the decrees of Caesar, sending him letters full of flattery and of thanks for his sentences, and willing to him a part of their fortunes in order to save the rest for their children. It seemed at last that Caesar were overstepping all bounds in order to discover to what depths the people had degenerated and how long they would suffer the bloody rule. After the conspirators were put to death, their relatives, friends, and even their acquaintances suffered the same fate. Dwellers in the magnificent palaces erected after the conflagration, when they went out on the street, were sure to see a whole succession of funerals. Pompeius, Cornelius, Martialis, Flavius Nepos, and Statius Domitius perished because accused of being wanting in love for Caesar, Novius Priscus because he was a friend of Seneca, Rufius Crispus was deprived of the right of fire and water because he had formerly been the husband of Papia. The great Thrasia fell a victim to his virtues. Many were put to death on account of their noble origin. Even Papia fell a victim to the momentary rage of Caesar. The senate cringed before the terrible potentate, erected temples in his honor, placed wreaths upon his statues, and established priests for him as if he were a god. Senators in fear and trembling ascended the Palatine to magnify the song of the Periodonises and to go mad with him amid orgies of naked bodies, wine, and flowers. But meantime from beneath, in the soil wet with the blood and tears of martyrs, grew silently, but ever stronger and stronger, the seed that Peter had sown. CHAPTER XXXXVIII VINICIUS TUPITRONIUS. We are kept well informed, dear friend, of what is going on in Rome, and what we do not know we learn from your letters. When a stone is cast in the water, the waves go farther and farther in a widening circle, and so a wave of madness has reached us from the Palatine. Carinas, sent by Caesar into Greece, stopped here on his way. On his march he despoiled cities and temples to replete the treasury. From the sweat and tears of the people will be built the golden house in Rome. It is possible that the world here too far has not beheld such a house, but it has not beheld such injustice, either. You know, Carinas, Kylo was of his ilk until he redeemed his life with death, but his men have not yet come to towns lying in our immediate neighborhood, for the reason, perhaps, that they have neither temples nor treasures. You ask us whether we are safe, I will say only that we are forgotten, and let that suffice for an answer. At the moment that I am writing these words I see our peaceful bay and the urses in a boat upon it, letting a net down into the quiet waters. My wife sits beside me, spinning wool. Our servants sing in the shadow of the almond trees. What peace and quiet, oh my dear friend! What a contrast to our old-time alarm and suffering! Tis not the fates as thou assertest, but Christ, our Lord and our God who blesses us. We are not strangers to tears and to sorrow, for our religion teaches us to grieve over the affliction of others. But these tears hold within them a comfort unknown to thee, for when our lives are ended we shall find again the beloved ones who are perishing and have perished for the truth of God. Peter and Paul are not dead to us. They have been reborn into glory. We see them with the eyes of our souls, and though our bodily eyes may weep, yet our hearts rejoice with their joy. Yea, dear friend, we are happy with a happiness that can know no end, because death, which for thee is the end of everything, is for us only the beginning of a higher happiness. So the days and the months pass in perfect peace. Our servants and slaves believe as we do in Christ and in Christ's gospel of love, so we all love one another. Often when the sun has set, or when the moon shines on the water, Lydia and I hold converse about the past, which now seems all a dream. When I remember how near was that beloved head to torture and death, I glorify God with my whole soul, for he alone could have rescued her from the arena and returned her into my hands. Petronius, thou hast known what comfort and fortitude that religion can give in the midst of afflictions, what courage in the face of death, now come and witness the joy it can give in everyday life. The world has not hitherto known a God whom it could love, so men did not love one another. Hence arose all manner of afflictions. For just as light proceeds from the sun, so does happiness proceed from love. The law-givers and the philosophers have not known this truth, it had no existence in Greece or in Rome, and by Rome I mean the whole world. The dry cold philosophy of the Stoics, which appeals to so many who would feign be virtuous, does indeed temper the heart as steel is tempered, but it hardens rather than improves it. But why do I write this to thee, who art more learned and more clever than I? Thou hast known Paul of Tarsus, and hast held converse with him more than once, hence thou knowest better than I how empty and how vain what a glittering show of meaningless words are the teachings of rhetoricians and philosophers compared to the religion which he preached. Thou canst recall the question he asked thee, if Caesar were a Christian would ye not all feel safer, more secure in your possessions, freer from alarm, and more certain of the morrow? Thou hast told me that our creed was an enemy of life. I tell thee now, that if from the beginning to the end of this letter I simply repeated these three words, I am happy. I could not sufficiently emphasize that happiness. Thou mayest make answer that my happiness is Ligia. There is truth in that, oh my friend, but that is because I love her immortal soul, and each loves the other in Christ. Such love can know neither separation, nor disloyalty, nor alteration, nor age, nor death. Even after youth and beauty have passed away, and our bodies are withered, and death touches us, love will remain, for the spirit remains. ere my eyes were open to the light I would have burned down my own home for the sake of Ligia, but now I say that I did not know what love was until Christ showed me the way. He is the source of love and of joy. Contrast thy luxuries, filled full as they are with alarm, thy joys uncertain of the morrow, thy orgies with the lives led by Christians, and an answer must at once be forthcoming. But for a better comparison come to our hills fragrant with time, come to our olive groves and ivy-covered shores, such calm awaits thee as thou hast never before experienced, and the sincere love of loyal hearts. With thy noble soul thou wilt find joy here, thy nimble wit will see the truth, and seeing it will learn to love it. Unlike Caesar and Tijalinas may hate it, but none can be indifferent to it. O Patronius, Ligia and I find solace in the thought that thou wilt soon be with us. Be well, be happy, come and visit us." Patronius received Vinicius's letter in Cumae, whither he had departed, together with other Augustalis, in the company of Caesar. His long struggle against Tijalinas was nearing its end. Patronius knew that he must be beaten in the end, and he understood the reasons. As Caesar fell gradually lower to the role of the comedian, Mountabank, charioteer, as he sank deeper in a slough of course dissipation, the arbiter of elegance became a nuisance to him. Even in the silence of Patronius Nero read disapproval. His very praises Nero interpreted as sarcasm. The illustrious patrician offended his self-love and provoked his envy. His riches and his magnificent works of art had become objects of desire both to the sovereign and to his powerful minister. Patronius had been spared with a view to this journey to Achaea, in which his taste and his knowledge of Greek art might prove useful. But Tijalinas attempted to prove to Caesar that Carinas excelled the arbiter in taste and erudition, and that he would be better able to arrange the games, receptions, and triumphs in Achaea. In that moment the doom of Patronius was sealed. But Caesar had not the courage to send him his sentence in Rome. Both Caesar and Tijalinas called to mind that this indolent esthete, who turned day into night and was interested only in art and banquets and luxury, had shown great power of work and energy at the time when he was proconsul in Bethenia and afterwards when consul in the capital. He commanded great respect in Rome, where he possessed not only the love of the people, but also of the Praetorians. None of Caesar's advisers could foresee exactly how Patronius would act, so it seemed safer to get him out of the city and to strike at him in a province. Consequently Patronius received an invitation to go with other Augustalis to Kumai. Though he suspected treachery, he went along, in order perhaps not to make a display of open resistance, and to show once more to Caesar and to the Augustalis, a face joyful and free from care, and so gain a final victory before death over Tijalinas. Meanwhile the latter accused him of friendship with Senator Skevinus, who was the head and front of Piso's conspiracy. Servants of Patronius remaining in Rome were imprisoned, his home was surrounded by Praetorian guards. When he received this news he showed no alarm or concern, but with a smile, said to such Augustalis as he was entertaining in his own beautiful villa in Kumai, Bronzebeard likes not direct questions, so you will see how confused he will be when I ask him whether it was he who ordered my people to be imprisoned. Then he bade them to a feast before the longer journey. He was preparing for the banquet when the letter from Vinicius arrived. On its receipt Patronius grew somewhat thoughtful, but in a little while his face resumed its wanted, calm expression. During the evening he answered as follows, I rejoice at your happiness and wonder at your good heart, for I had not thought that two lovers could remember a third person at a distance. You not only have not forgotten me, but invite me to Sicily to share with me your bread and your Christ, who, as thou rightest, has showered happiness upon you. If this be true, honor him. I think, however, O friend, that Ligia was restored to thee partly by the aid of Ursus, and partly also by the Roman people. If Caesar were another man, I should think that further persecutions would be stopped through consideration of thy kinship to him through the granddaughter of Tiberius. But if thou believest that Christ was the sole cause of Ligia's rescue, I will not dispute with thee. So spare no sacrifices to him. Prometheus also sacrificed himself for mankind, but alas, Prometheus is probably an invention of the poets, while truthful men have told me that they have seen Christ with their own eyes. I have come to think with thee that he is the most worthy of the gods. I remember the question of Paul of Tarsus, and think that if Bronzebeard lived according to the precepts of Christ, I might find time to visit you in Sicily, then in the shade of tree and bifountains we could discuss all the gods and all the truths that have been debated among the Greek philosophers of all time. Today I must give thee a brief answer. Two philosophers only do I respect. The name of one is Pyrrho, and an acreon is the other. The rest I will sell thee cheap, together with the whole school of Greek Stoics and our own. Truth abides somewhere so high that the gods themselves cannot see it from the heights of Olympus. To thee, dearest friend, thy Olympus seems still higher, and standing upon it thou callest down to me, ascend, and thou wilt see such sights as thou hadst not dreamed of here to for. Perhaps, but I answer, friend, I have not the legs, and when thou reachest the end of this letter thou wilt acknowledge that I am right. No! Happy spouse of the Princess Aurora! Thy creed is not for me. Should I love the Bithynians who carry my litter, the Egyptians who prepare my bath, am I to love Bronzebeard and Tijellinus? By the white knees of the graces I swear to thee that even if I desired to love them, I could not. There are in Rome at least one hundred thousand persons who have either crooked shoulders or big knees, or thin legs, cross eyes, or heads too large for them. Perhaps thou command me to love them also? Where can I find that love if I do not feel it in my heart? And if thy God wishes that I love them all, why in his omnipotence did he not endow them with, for example, the forms of Naiobes children, which thou hast seen on the Palatine? Whoever loves beauty cannot for that very reason love ugliness. One may disbelieve in our gods, but it is possible to love them as did Phidias, Praxiteles, Myron, Scopius, and Lysius. Even should I desire to go wither thou wouldst lead me, I could not. Thou believest like Paul of Tarsus that some time beyond the sticks, in some Elysian fields, thou wilt see thy Christ. Well let him say then himself whether he would accept me with my gems, my myrene vase, my additions of Sosius, and my golden-haired Eunice. I smile at the thought of this, my friend, for Paul of Tarsus declared to me that, for Christ's sake, it was necessary to renounce rose garlands, banquets, and luxuries. True, he promised me other happiness, but I replied that I was too old for new joys, and that roses will always delight my eyes, and that the odor of violets will always be sweeter to me than the smell of some dirty neighbor from the Saboura. These are reasons why thy happiness cannot be mine, but there is also another reason which I reserve for the last. It is that death calls me, for thee life is beginning to dawn, but for me the sun is already set, and twilight is descending upon my head. In other words, I must die, oh dear one. It is not worthwhile to speak at length about this. It had to end thus. Thou who knowest Bronzebeard wilt readily understand. Tidrillinas has conquered, or rather my victories reached their end. I have lived as I pleased, and will die as it pleases me. Do not grieve. No God has promised me immortality, hence I am not taken by surprise, but thou art mistaken, Vinicius, in affirming that only thy God teaches men to die calmly. No, our world knew before you that when the last cup is drained, it is time to depart, to rest, and it knows yet how to do this serenely. Plato says that virtue is music, and that the life of a philosopher is harmony. If this be true, I shall die as I have lived, virtuously. I should like to say farewell to thy divine wife. With the words I once spoke to her in the House of Bowless, I have seen many persons, but thy equal never. So if the soul is something more than what Pyrrho thinks, mine will fly to thee on the way to the limits of the ocean, and will alight at thy house in the form of a butterfly, or as the Egyptians believe of a hawk, otherwise I cannot come. Meantime let Sicily take the place of the gardens of Hesperides. May the divinities of the field and the forest and the fountains scatter flowers on your path, and may white doves build their nests on every acanthus of the columns of your house. Part 3. CHAPTER XXXI. Patronius did not deceive himself. Two days later young Nerva, always devoted to him, sent his freedman to Kumai with the news of all that had happened at Caesar's court. The death of Patronius had already been decreed. On the following day a Centurion was to be sent to him with orders to stop at Kumai and wait there for further instructions. Another messenger was to bring the death sentence a few days later. Patronius received the news brought by the freedman with unruffled demeanor, and said, That wilt take to thy master one of my vases that will be handed to thee before departing. Say to him in my name that I thank him with all my heart, but now I shall be able to anticipate the sentence. And suddenly he broke into a laugh like a man who has just thought of a splendid project and enjoys beforehand its fulfillment. And that same evening his slaves ran about bidding all the Augustalis with their ladies to come to a banquet at the beautiful villa of the Arbiter of Elegance. Patronius spent the afternoon hours writing in his library. Once he took a bath, and then commanded the robe-folders to dress him. Splendid and adorned like a god, he went to the dining-hall to cast a connoisseur's eye upon the preparations, and then to the gardens, where youths and Grecian maidens from the islands were weaving garlands of roses for the banquet. Not the slightest anxiety was portrayed on his face. The servants only knew that the banquet would be something out of the common, for he had ordered unusual rewards to be given those with whom he was satisfied, and light floggings to those whose work should not please him, or to those who had previously deserved blame or punishment. He directed that the loot-players and the singers should be generously rewarded. Finally, seating himself in the garden beneath a beach, through whose foliage the sun made bright spots upon the ground, he called Eunice to his side. Gently touching her temple, he gazed at her with the admiration with which a connoisseur looks upon a statue fresh from the chisel of a master. Eunice, asked he, does thou know that for a long time thou has not been a slave? She lifted up to him her calm, heavenly blue eyes, and shook her head in denial. Master, she said, I will always be thy slave, but may hap thou dost not know, continued Patronius, that this villa and these slaves weaving garlands over yonder, and all that is here, the fields and the herds, belong from henceforth to thee. At these words Eunice suddenly fell back a few steps, and in a voice choked by emotion inquired, Why, dost thou say this, master? She approached him again, and stared at him with eyes full of fear. Her face grew as pale as a sheet. He still smiled, and smiling, said only one word, yes. There was a moment of silence broken only by the rustling of the wind in the leaves of the boxwood trees. Patronius might almost have imagined that he had in front of him a statue cut in white marble. Eunice, he said, I desire to die in peace. The girl, gazing at him with a heartbroken smile, whispered, Master, I obey thee. In the evening the guests arrived in large numbers. They had been at many a banquet of Patronius, and knowing that in comparison even Caesar's feast seemed dull and barbarous. Many knew well that the clouds of Caesar's displeasure hung over the arbiter of elegance, but this had happened so many times, and so many times had Patronius known how to disperse them with a clever word or a bold act, that no one actually believed any grave danger impended over him. His gay face and customary careless smile confirmed the common impression. The beautiful Eunice, to whom he had expressed his wish to die in peace, and to whom his every word was as the word of an oracle, preserved perfect calmness of expression. There were marvelous gleams in her eyes as of inner joy. Youths with hair and golden nets stood at the threshold of the banquet hall. On their heads were reeds of roses. In conformity with ancient custom they warned the guests to step over the threshold with the right foot foremost. A slight fragrance of violets pervaded the hall. Lights burned in many-colored Alexandrian glasses. Beside the couches stood little Grecian girls, whose office it was to anoint with balsms the feet of the guests. The walls were lined by loot-players and Athenian singers, awaiting a signal from their leader. The table service was resplendent with luxury, but that luxury did not offend the most critical taste. It seemed to be a natural development. Cheerfulness and freedom from restraint pervaded the hall with the fragrance of the violets. The guests as they entered felt that neither compulsion nor menace was hanging over them, as they used to feel they did in Caesar's palace, where insufficient praise for a song or poem might be paid for by the forfeit of one's life. The sight of the lamps, of the ivy-covered goblets of iced wines embedded in snow, and of the exquisite dishes cheered the hearts of the banqueters. The conversation became as lively as the buzzing of a swarm of bees over an apple-tree in blossom. Now and then it was interrupted by a burst of gay laughter, a murmur of praise, or too loud a kiss imprinted upon a bare white shoulder. As they drank their wine, the guests spilled from their goblets a few drops to the immortal gods as a petition for protection and for favors to the host. It mattered not that many of them disbelieved in the gods. Custom and convention commanded this. Petronius, reclining beside Eunice, chatted of the current Roman gossip of the latest divorces, loves, romances, and races. Of Spiculus, who had recently earned fame in the arena, and of the newest books which had appeared at the shops of Attractus and Socii. Pouring out some wine, he explained that he ported out only in honor of the Cyprian goddess, the oldest and greatest among all the gods, the only immortal one, enduring from the beginning and dominating every one. His conversation was like a sunbeam which lights up every new object or like a summer breeze which rustles the flowers in the garden. At length he nodded as a signal to the leader of the choir. Then the lutes emitted a gentle sound and fresh young voices responded to them. Then girl-dancers from cause, Eunice's countrywomen, moved nimbly, their rosy bodies shining through translucent robes. At the end an Egyptian soothsayer forecast the future of the guests from the motions of goldfish enclosed in a crystal vessel. When they had had enough of these amusements, Petronius lifted himself slightly from his Syrian cushion and said carelessly, Friends, pardon me if I ask a favor from you at this banquet. It is this, let every guest accept from me as a gift the goblet from which he spilt wine in honor of the gods and for my well-being. The goblets of Petronius glittered with gold and precious stones and masterly carvings. Although the distribution of gifts was customary in Rome, joy filled the hearts of the revelers. Some of them thanked him and praised him loudly, others said that Jupiter himself had never honored the gods in Olympus with such precious gifts. There were even some who hesitated about accepting them since these gifts were of such unprecedented value. Petronius, lifting up a marine vase resembling a rainbow in brilliancy, said, This is the goblet from which I spilt wine in honor of the Lady of Cyprus. Henceforth let no lips touch it, and let no other hand pour out wine from it in honor of any other deity. He cast the precious vessel down upon the floor, strewn with lilac-colored crocuses, and when it broke into small fragments, he said, in answer to the general amazement, Dear friends, be merry and marvel not, old age and debility are sad comrades for the last years of life, so I will give you a good example and good advice. As you see you need not wait for them, but before they come you can depart of your own free will as I depart. What is thy intention? cried a number of voices at once. I intend to be merry, to drink wine, to hear music, to gaze at these divine shapes which you see by my side, and then to fall asleep with my head crowned with flowers. I have already taken leave of Caesar. Will you hearken to what I have written to him as a farewell? He took a letter from under the purple cushion and read as follows. O Caesar, I know that thou anxiously awaitest my coming, and that thy loyal and friendly heart yearns for me day and night. I know that thou wouldst reign gifts upon me, make me the prefect of thy Praetorian Guards, and command Tidolinas to become that for which the gods created him, an overseer of mules in those thy lands, which thou didst inherit by the poisoning of Domitius. Pray pardon me if I now swear to thee by Hades, and by the shades of thy mother, thy wife, thy brother, and Seneca, who are all there, that I cannot go to thee. Life is a great treasure, my beloved, and from this treasure I have known how to select the most precious gems. But in life there are many things which I cannot longer endure. Pray do not think that my feelings were hurt, because thou didst kill thy mother, thy wife, and thy brother, because thou didst burn Rome, and send to Erebus all the honest men in thy empire. No grandson of Cronos, death is the common doom of humanity, and one could expect nothing else from thee. But to lacerate my ears for long years to come with thy singing, to see thy mount-a-bank legs contorted in the period and dance, to listen to thy playing, thy declamation, thy poems, oh wretched suburban versifier, would be too much for my strength, and has aroused in me a wish to die. Rome stops her ears to avoid hearing thee, the world laughs at thee, and I wish no longer to blush for thee, nor can I do it. The howls of Cerberus, my beloved, though they resemble thy singing, will less offend me, for I have never been his friend, and I do not need to be ashamed of him. Farewell, but sing no more, kill, but write no poems, poison, but dance not, turn incendiary, but do not play on the harp. Such are the wishes and such the last friendly advice sent to thee by the arbiter of elegance. The banqueters were struck dumb with terror. They knew that the loss of the Empire would have been a less cruel blow to Nero. They knew also that the man who wrote that letter must die. At the same time pallid fear seized them for their own sakes, because they had been present at its reading. Patronius burst into a laugh so genuine and so gay that it seemed as if the whole matter were merely an innocent joke. Then he glanced around him and said, Be merry and drive away, fear! Nobody need boast that he heard this letter read. I myself will boast of it only to Charon, when he ferries me over the river. He nodded to the Greek physician and stretched his arm out to him. The skillful Greek, in the twinkling of an eye, bound it with a golden ribbon, and opened the vein at the bend of the elbow. The blood spouted out upon the cushion and covered Eunice, who supported the head of Patronius. Looking over him she said, Master, didst thou think that I would leave thee? If the gods would grant thee immortality and Caesar were to give thee the rule of the whole world, I would yet go with thee. Patronius smiled, raising himself slightly. He touched his lips to hers and replied, Come with me. Then he added, Thou hast truly loved me, my divine one. And she stretched her rosy arm out to the physician, and soon her blood flowed out and mingled with his. He gave a sign to the leader of the choir. Again harps and voices resounded. First they sang Harmonius, then the song of Anachryon, in which the poet complained of having found under the tree the frozen and weeping child of Aphrodite, of having brought him in, warmed him back to life, and dried his wings, and then of how the ingrate had in return pierced his heart with an arrow, since which time he had lost all peace of mind. Patronius and Eunice, reclining against each other, beautiful as two gods, listened smiling and growing paler. When the song was ended, Patronius ordered more wine and fresh dishes to be served, and commenced a discussion with the guests seated near him about all those graceful trifles which usually occupied the minds of the banqueters. Finally he summoned the Greek to bind up his veins for a moment, explaining that drowsiness overpowered him, and he wished to yield himself to slumber before death put him in eternal sleep. And thus he fell asleep. When he awoke, the head of the maiden lying beside him had already assumed the color of a white lily on his breast. He placed it on the cushion to get a final look at it. Then his veins were opened again. At his nod the singers began a new song of Anachryon, and the harps accompanied it so gently as not to drown the words. Patronius grew paler and paler. When the last sounds died away, he turned once more to the banqueters and said, Friends, acknowledge that with us perishes. But he could not finish. With the last movement his arm embraced Eunice. His head fell on the cushion, and he breathed his last. But the banqueters, gazing at these two white bodies resembling two marvellous statues, well knew that with them had perished all that remained to them in their world its poetry and beauty. End of Part 3, Chapter 31 Epilogue to Quo Vadis, a tale of the time of Nero. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Quo Vadis by Henrik Sinkiewicz, translated by Binyon Antmelevsky. Epilogue. The revolt of the Gallic legions under the leadership of Vindex did not at first threaten to be very serious. Caesar was barely thirty-one years of age. No one dared to hope that the world would so soon be free from the nightmare that oppressed it. It was remembered that many revolts had already occurred during previous reigns without resulting in any change of rule. Thus in the time of Tiberius, Drusus had crushed the revolt of the Panonian legions, and Germanicus, that of the legions upon the Rhine, and who, said the people, could possibly succeed Nero now that all the descendants of the Divine Augustus have been put to death. Others, looking at the Colossus, conceived him to be a Hercules, and thought that nothing could break his power. There were even those who, after his departure for Achia, longed for his return since Helius and Polythetes to whom he had relegated the government of Italy, ruled even more cruelly than himself. Nobody was certain either of life or property. The law ceased to be a protection. Human dignity and virtue had disappeared. Family ties had been dissolved. Debased hearts dared not even to admit of hope. From Greece came rumors of the unparalleled triumphs of Caesar, of the thousands of crowns he had won, and of the thousands of rivals he had defeated. The world seemed to be one vast orgy, bloody and farcical. The opinion prevailed that virtue and heroic deeds had come to an end, that the time had arrived for dancing and music, for debauchery, for blood, and that the whole future trend of life would be in this direction. Caesar himself, to whom rebellion opened the way for renewed plundering, cared little for the mutinous legions or for Vindex, and did not even restrain his joy over the revolt. He would not leave Achia, only when notified by Helius that further delay might result in the loss of his dominions did he set out for Naples. There he again played and sang, disregarding the news of still more serious events. Vanly did Tijalinas warn him that former rebellions of the legions had no leader, whereas now there stood at their head a descendant of the ancient kings of Aquitania, a tried warrior of great renown. Nero's answer was, Here the Greeks listen to me, they who alone know how to listen, and who alone are worthy of my singing. He said that his first duty was owed to art and fame, but when at last he learned that Vindex had declared him to be a bad artist, he rose and set out for Rome. The wounds which Petronius had inflicted upon his self-love opened anew. He was anxious to seek justice from the Senate for such an unparalleled injury. On the road he came across a bronze group representing a Golic warrior vanquished by a Roman knight. He took this as a favourable augury. Thenceforth he mentioned the mutinous legions and Vindex only as a jest. His entrance into the city cast into the shade all former events of this sort. He drove the very chariot which Augustus had used in his triumph. One arch of the circus was destroyed to open a passage for the procession. The Senate, the Knights, and an immense multitude came out to greet him. The walls trembled with the shouts of, Hail Augustus! Hail Hercules! Hail the Divine One! The Uncocquerable One! The Olympian! The Pythian! The Immortal! Behind him were born the crowns that he had worn, and tablets inscribed with the names of the cities where he had triumphed, and of the champions he had defeated. Nero himself was intoxicated. With emotion he asked the Augustalis, who surrounded him, what was the triumph of Julius Caesar compared to this? The thought that any mortal could dare to raise a hand against such a demigod could not cross his mind. He felt himself to be truly an Olympian and therefore safe. Enthusiasm and the madness of the multitude stirred up answering madness within him. In fact, on that day of triumph, it seemed that not only Caesar and the city, but the whole world had gone mad. The flowers and the piles of crowns hid the abyss that yawned beneath, yet that very evening the columns and walls of the temples were covered with inscriptions denouncing the crimes of Nero, threatening the near approach of vengeance and satirizing him as an artist. From lip to lip passed the words he sang until he awakened the galls. Some news circulated throughout the city and swelled to monstrous proportions. The Augustalis were seized with terror. People uncertain what the future might bring forth dared not express wishes or hopes, dared not even feel or think. Nero, however, lived only in the theatre and in music. Nothing interested him save newly invented instruments and a new water organ, experiments with which were made on the Palatine. Only incapable of thought or action he deemed that he could avert all danger by promises of spectacles and exhibitions in the future. The people nearest to him, seeing that in lieu of providing means and an army he was exerting himself only to find apt expression for depicting the panic around him, began to lose their heads. Others, however, thought that he was deafening himself and others with quotations only to hide the alarm and disquietude of his soul. His acts became confused. Every day thousands of fresh plans passed through his head. At times he leaped up to combat the danger, commanding that his lutes and harps be packed upon wagons, and that his young slave women be armed as Amazons while he sent out orders to recall the legions from the east. At times he thought that he would conquer the rebellious legions not by war but by song, and he laughed within himself as he conjured up in his imagination the spectacle of the soldiers yielding to song. They would surround him with streaming eyes. He would sing to them a hymn of victory after which a golden epoch would begin for him and for Rome. At times he called for blood. At others he proclaimed that Egypt alone would satisfy him. He recalled the soothsayers who had promised him rule over Jerusalem. Then he would move himself to tears at the thought that as a wandering menstrual he would earn his own livelihood and be honored in far-off cities and countries. He would be honored not as Caesar the sovereign of the world, but as a poet, whose like had never yet been seen in the world. Thus he struggled, fumed, played, sang, changed his plans, changed his quotations, changed his life, and transformed the whole world about him into a foolish dream, fantastic and horrible, a mad route of bombastic expressions, wretched verses, groans, tears, and blood. And all this while the cloud in the west was growing larger and darker every day. The measure was overfilled, the farce was nearing its end. When news came that Galba and all Spain had joined the rebellion he fell into maddened fury, he crushed goblets, overturned the tables at the banquets, and gave orders which neither helious nor tigelinas dared to carry out, to murder all the Gauls residing in Rome, to let loose the beasts from the menageries, to transfer the capital to Alexandria seemed to him sublime and astonishing deeds that could easily be accomplished. But the great days of his power had passed. Even the accomplices of his former crimes began to look upon him as on a madman. The death of Vindex and the consequent discord that arose in the mutinous legions seemed for a moment to turn the scales in his favour. New feasts and new triumphs were ordered, new sentences were issued in Rome, when one night a courier, mounted on a foaming horse, came dashing in from the camp of the Praetorians, with the news that within the city itself the soldiers had raised the banner of revolt, and had proclaimed Galba Caesar. Nero was asleep when the courier arrived. When waking he called vainly for the guards who at night watched the doors of his chambers. The palace was deserted, save for the slaves who were plundering in the remote quarters whatever could be carried away in a hurry. But the sight of Nero frightened them away. He wandered through the solitary hall, filling them with cries of terror and despair. At last his freedmen, Phaeon, Sporus, and Epaphroditus answered his calls. They urged him to flee, saying there was not a moment to lose, but he continued to delude himself. Suppose he should array himself in his mourning robes and appeal to the Senate. Could the Senate resist his tears and his eloquence? Suppose he should use all his oratory, his rhetoric and his talent of an actor. Could anyone in the world resist him? Would they not at least give him the governorship of Egypt? Habituated to flatter him, his freedmen dared not even now to contradict him. All they could do was to warn him that ere he could reach the forum the mob would tear him to pieces. They threatened that if he did not mount his horse at once they also would desert him. Phaeon offered him a hiding place in his own villa beyond the momentum gate. At last they all leaped upon their horses and, covering their heads with mantles, galloped off toward the walls. The night was waning. The streets were already in motion and gave expression to the serious character of the situation. Sometimes singly and sometimes in attachments were scattered throughout the city. When they had reached the camp, Nero's horse shied suddenly at sight of a corpse. The mantle slipped from his head. A soldier who happened to be passing recognized the emperor. Confused by the suddenness of the apparition, he could only give a military salute. On passing the Praetorian camp they overheard thunderous cheers for Galba. At last Caesar understood that the hour of death was at hand. He was smitten by alarm and by the reproaches of his conscience. He cried out that he saw a black cloud before him from which protruded faces in which he recognized his mother, his wife, and his brother. His teeth chattered from fright, but even yet his comedian soul found a certain pleasure in the very terror of the moment. That the one-time omnipotent ruler of the universe had now lost everything seemed to him to be the highest watermark of tragedy. True to himself he continued to play the leading role in it. The fever of quotation seized upon him a passionate hope that those around him would remember them for posterity. There were moments when he cried out for death and would have summoned Spiculus, the most dexterous of all the gladiators. There were other moments when he declined, Mother, wife, brother, call me to death. Vain and childish hopes still flashed up in him ever and on. He knew that death was approaching. Nevertheless he could not bring himself to believe it. They found the no-minten gate open. They galloped through and passed by Ostronium, where Peter had taught and baptized. At dawn they arrived at Phaon's villa. There the freedmen no longer concealed from him that the time for death had arrived. Then he commanded them to dig him a grave. He lay down on the ground so that they might take his exact measurement, but at sight of the earth cast up by the spades a mortal terror seized him. His fat face paled. Clammy drops of sweat like morning dew stood out upon his forehead. He strove for delay, with a faltering yet still theatrical voice, he cried that the hour had not yet come. Then he began to quote again. Finally he asked them to burn him. What an artist is now perishing! He repeated as if in wonder. Meanwhile a messenger arrived from Phaon, announcing that the senate had already pronounced sentence that the parasite should be punished according to ancient custom. What is that custom? inquired Nero with ashy lips. They will place thy neck in a fork, flog thee to death, and throw thy corpse into the tiber, replied Apaphroditus quietly. Nero bared his breast. It is true then, he said, looking upward at the sky, and once more he repeated, what an artist is perishing! The clatter of horses' hoofs was now heard. It was the centurion coming with his soldiers for the head of Bronzebeard. Make haste! cried the freedman. Nero placed the knife to his neck, but he only pricked himself with a timid hand. It was evident that he never would have courage to drive the blade in. Then unexpectedly Apaphroditus pushed his hand. The knife entered to the hilt. Nero's eyes protruded from his head, horrible, immense, terrified. I bring thee life, exclaimed the centurion as he entered. Too late, answered Nero in a hoarse voice. A moment later he added, this is loyalty. Death had now seized his head. The blood from his huge neck spurred it in a thick stream upon the flowers of the garden. His feet kicked the ground, and he died. On the morrow the faithful Actia wrapped his body in costly stuffs and burned it on a funeral pyre, drenched with perfumes. So passed Nero, as passes the whirlwind, storm, fire, war, or plague. But even to this day the Basilica of Peter rules over the city and the world from the heights of the Vatican. Under the ancient Capena gate rises to-day a little chapel with an almost obliterated inscription. Quo Vadis, Dominae. End of Epilogue. End of Quo Vadis, A Tale of the Time of Nero by Henrik Sinkiewicz Translated by S. A. Benyon and S. Malevsky Read by David Leeson