by F. W. Farrar
CHAPTER LXIII
_MUTTERING THUNDER_
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EURIPIDES.
The insistency of Helius, and the alarming reports which reachedNero from all quarters, roused him at last from his intoxicationof frivolous vanity and compelled him to cut short the ‘ignoblemasquerade with which he had soiled Greece.’ But he would not revealthe least consciousness of alarm, and, indeed, in the madness of themoment, he did not realise it. What did it matter if he was deposed?‘All the world,’ he used to say, ‘supports art,’ and he could easilygain his living as a favourite harpist or singer on the publicstage. The glory of the actor, won by his own talents, should bemore dazzling than the diadem of the Emperor, which was but theheritage of his race!
He first entered Naples, because there he had made his first stageappearance. He entered it as a _hieronices_, riding in a chariotdrawn by four milk-white steeds, through a breach made in the walls.He made the same magnificent entry into Antium, dear to him as theplace of his birth, and into Alba, the city where the Temple ofJupiter Latiaris was venerated by the entire Latin race. But hereserved for Rome the fullest magnificence of a triumph heretoforeundreamed of, and such as might well cause every true Roman to blushfor shame. He degraded to his ignoble purpose the chariot in whichAugustus had triumphed after the battle of Actium. His robe was ofpurple; over it flowed a chlamys gleaming with golden stars; on hisbrow he wore the olive wreath of the Olympic victors; in his righthand he carried the laurel crown of Pythia. Seated in the chariot byhis side was no brave soldier or noble statesman, but Diodorus theharpist! Before him went a long procession of heralds, each carryingsome garland of victory, with tablets on which were inscribed thenames of those whom he had conquered, and the songs or tragedies inwhich he had gained the prize. Thousands of the trained applauderswhom he called _Augustiani_, followed his chariot proclaimingthemselves the soldiers and comrades of his successes. An arch ofthe Circus Maximus had been broken down for him, and through it hemade his way along the Velabrum and the Forum, not to the temple ofJupiter on the Capitol, or to that of Mars the Avenger, but to thePalace and the temple of his patron Apollo. The Senate had gone forthin festal robes to meet and greet him. As the champing steeds tossedtheir white manes and bore him slowly along, every door and windowand roof and lattice was crowded with spectators, and the air wasrent with shouts of ‘Hail, Olympic, hail, Pythic victor! Hail,sole _periodonices_![119] Augustus, Augustus! Hail, Nero-Hercules!Nero-Apollo! Hail, sacred voice! Happy are they who hear it!’ Instreet after street victims were immolated as he passed; showersof fragrant saffron were sprinkled down; the air was rich with theperfume of incense burning on hundreds of altars; birds and littleornaments, and jewels and flowers were scattered over him. Itrained roses from the balconies full of matrons and maidens. Of hiseighteen hundred and eight crowns he arranged the choicest in his ownbedchamber and around his bed. The rest he sent in masses to adornthe great Egyptian obelisk which Augustus had reared to be the goalof the Circus Maximus.
Such men as the consuls of the year--the dull poet Silius Italicusand the orator Trachalus--might estimate highly the successes of acomedian, but the indignant shade of Thrasea might have rejoiced inits Elysian fields to have been spared the sight of such a triumph!
But so far from being ashamed, Nero henceforth made his celestialvoice his chief concern. As it was too precious to be wasted inaddressing crass Prætorians, he contented himself with sendingmessages to them, or having his addresses read aloud in his presence.What he had to say to the Senate was similarly read by one of theconsuls. An attendant whom he called a _phonascus_ stood constantlyat his side to warn him to be careful of his throat, and to keep ahandkerchief before his mouth. Whoever extolled his wretched voicewas his friend; whoever praised it insufficiently was his enemy.
It is part of the subtle irony of history that the zenith of apparentprosperity is often the culminating moment of misfortune, and thescene of most splendid exaltation is that in which the fingers ofa man’s hand steal forth and write on the palace-wall the flashingmessages of doom. The triumph of the sole _periodonices_ whom theworld had ever seen was the last hour of his sham glory. The patienceof God and man was exhausted, and ‘down rushed the thunderbolt.’
Romans might be too deeply abased to avenge the degradation of theirname by the latest of those triumphs which seemed to cover withridiculous parody the three hundred which had preceded it. But therewas yet a Gaul brave enough to arouse the Empire from its fatalapathy.
His name was Julius Vindex, and he was the Proprætor of Gaul. Hewas rich, and he was a senator, as his father had been before him,for Claudius had granted this distinction to the descendant of theancient kings of Aquitania. Nero envied his wealth, but Vindex, inorder to make the greedy parasites of the Court think that he wouldsoon die and leave them his possessions, drank cumin-water and madehimself artificially pale. In Gaul he received constant news ofNero’s villanies both paltry and heinous, and his soul burned withinhim. He sounded the legionaries to discover whether they were asmuch ashamed and weary as himself of the tyranny of a comedian anda monster. He found them ripe for rebellion. He had no personalobjects. He knew that a Gaul could hardly be Emperor, and he secretlyoffered the Empire to Galba. On March 16, A.D. 68, he gave, a littletoo prematurely, the signal of revolt. Nero had gone to Naples torefresh himself and to rest his precious voice, and there he receivedthe news of the insurrection on March 19, the anniversary of themurder of his mother.
The idiotic frivolity with which he acted upon such seriousintelligence astonished even his courtiers. He only laughed, andpretended to rejoice at the opportunity which would thus be affordedhim of spoiling the wealthiest of the provinces. He went into thegymnasium, and watched with affected transport the contests of theathletes. At supper still more perilous tidings reached him, but hecontented himself with saying, ‘Woe to the rebels!’ Meanwhile thewalls of Rome were scrawled over with satirical inscriptions. Yetfor eight days he took no step whatever, answered no letters, gaveno orders, attempted to get over the peril by calmly ignoring it.His long impunity had made him a fatalist. Had not Britain been lostand recovered? Had not Armenia been lost and recovered? Whateverhappened, was he not promised an Eastern kingdom, or could he notsupport himself by his voice and lyre?
A few days later came an edict of Vindex, in which he spoke of Neroas Ahenobarbus, which angered Nero as much as it angered Henry VII.to be described by Richard III. as ‘one Henry Tidder or Tudor.’Vindex also described Nero as a wretched twangler on the harp. Nowindeed he was furious. To call him a wretched twangler! Did any ofhis friends know of a better harpist than himself? Was not such acriticism a proof of ignorance and bad taste? Let the Senate rouseitself to avenge him! He would come in person, but that he felt acertain weakness in his throat.
Messenger after messenger came spurring to Naples, and Nero wascompelled to hurry back in alarm to Rome. Vindex was by this timeat the head of a hundred thousand men, yet Nero quite recovered hisspirits when, on his road to Rome, he saw the statue of a Gaulishsoldier subdued and dragged by the hair by a Roman knight. At thesight of it he leapt up for joy, and adored heaven. When he reachedRome, instead of summoning an assembly of the Senate and the peopleto meet him, he only invited a few leading men to the Palace, andafter a brief consultation, spent the afternoon in showing themnew kinds of hydraulic organs. ‘I intend to display them all on thestage,’ he said--with the affected afterthought ‘if Vindex will letme.’
When Galba first received the secret overtures of Vindex hetemporised. He had only preserved his life under various tyrantsby consummate care, and by affecting a policy of submission andindifference. Vindex implored him to constitute himself ‘theleader and avenger of the human race,’ but he took no step untilhe discovered that Nero had sent secret orders that he was to bemurdered, and found that he had only escaped very narrowly and bythe merest accident. Besides, as h
is officer T. Vinius reminded him,he had hesitated in his allegiance, and to hesitate was to be lost.He must either assume the purple or prepare to die.
The fresh intelligence that Galba and the two provinces of Spain hadalso revolted, struck Nero with panic. He swooned away, and remainedfor some time speechless and motionless. On recovering his senses hetore his robe, and beat his head, with the cry, ‘I am ruined!’ Hisnurse tried to console him with the remark that other Princes hadsuffered similar calamities. ‘Nay,’ he answered, ‘my fate is moreunheard of than that of all others, for _I_ lose the Empire whileyet I live.’ Some steps were suggested to him. He recalled sometroops from Illyria, and put Petronius Turpilianus at the head ofsuch forces as he could secure. He set a price on the head of Vindex,and Vindex replied with the ‘sublime gasconade,’ ‘Nero promises tenmillion sesterces to any one who will bring him my head. I promisemy head to any one who will bring me his.’ But scarcely a single planoccurred to Nero which was not puerile; not one measure which was notmonstrous. He would execute the provincial governors, and appoint newones. He would send round to the islands and kill all the exiles, forthey might join the revolters. He would order a general massacre ofall the Gauls in Rome, for they might favour their countrymen. Hewould give up the Gallic provinces to be plundered by the soldiers.He would invite the whole Senate to a banquet, and poison them. Hedeposed the two consuls, appointed himself sole consul, and as heleft the banquet, leaning on the shoulders of his intimates, hedeclared that he would present himself before the legions unarmedand weeping; and, when he had melted their hearts by his tears, hewould sing strains of victory to the rejoicing soldiers--which hemust immediately compose. Above this ‘lugubrious buffoonery’ hecould not rise!
His other preparations to meet the crisis--such as they were--borethe same stamp of infructuous folly. They were all tainted withvanity, imbecility, and corruption. In choosing vehicles for hisexpedition, his chief care was about those which were necessary forhis stage properties. The women who were to accompany him had theirhair cut short to make them look like Amazons, and were armed withaxes and targets. In raising money he was very fastidious thatthe silver should be freshly minted and the gold fine. Many flatlyrefused to contribute, exclaiming that he ought to get back the sumswith which the informers had been gorged to repletion. He was madedaily to feel that his power was gone. When he summoned the citytribes to renew their oath of allegiance, and to enrol themselvesas soldiers, the result was such a failure that he had to order eachhousehold to furnish a proportionate number of slaves. Among these hewould only enrol the most approved, not even excepting stewards andsecretaries.
But he had to submit to the agony of daily insults. The people weresuffering from famine prices, and the arrival of an Alexandriancorn-vessel was announced. This always gave an occasion forrejoicing, but when it turned out that the vessel was only ladenwith a cargo of Nile sand to sprinkle over the arena, there was anoutburst of rage and contumely. Scoffs at his chariot-racing andsinging were heard everywhere. Burghers pretended to get up quarrelswith their slaves at night, and then shouted _Vindex! Vindex!_ asthough they were merely appealing to the police. Nor was this all.He was tormented with dreams and portents of every description, whichmade his days and nights hideous. He dreamt that he was steering aship, and that some one wrenched the helm out of his hand; that hismurdered wife Octavia dragged him into the nethermost abyss; thathe was covered over with a multitude of winged ants. There wasa stateliness and tragic sense of condemnation in another of hisdreams, in which the ideal statues of the nations at Pompey’s theatresprang to life, surrounded him, and blocked his path. It was rumouredthat on the first day of the year, the Lares had fallen down in themiddle of a sacrifice, and that the great gates of the mausoleum ofhis family had opened spontaneously, while a voice came from theirawful recesses which summoned him by name. When a solemn rite was tobe performed at the Capitol, the keys were nowhere to be found. Whenhis speech against Vindex was pronounced in the Senate, and he saidthat ‘criminals should soon meet the end they had deserved,’ thesenators had joined in an ill-omened shout of approval. It wasnoticed, too, that the last tragedy which he had chanted in publicwas that of ‘?'dipus in Exile,’ and that the last verse which he hadspoken was--
‘Wife, Mother, Father, join to bid me die.’
If, on receiving the news of the revolt of Vindex, he had puthimself, like a true Roman Emperor, at the head of his legions,the terrible prestige of a Cæsar, the remembered failure of previousconspiracies, and the disunion of his enemies, might have securedhis triumph. For the German legions of Verginius Rufus disdainedto follow the initiative of the Gauls. Their own general refusedthe Empire, and declared for Galba; but an unhappy and accidentalcollision between the jealous cohorts led to a battle in which twentythousand Gauls were left dead upon the field. Vindex, in despair,stabbed himself with his own sword. Galba, in scarcely less despair,meditated suicide at Clunia, hearing that the soldiers of Verginiuswere anything but favourable to his claims. If but one pulse of trueblood of his brave patrician ancestors had stirred in the veins ofNero, if he could have shown but one momentary flash of their spirit,he would have been gloriously saved. But his abuse of passion,his disgraced manhood, his polluted mind, his enervated frame,stamped upon him the curse of nullity, and the infamous throng ofcontaminated courtiers who formed his band of intimates were as emptyand effeminate as himself. No strength was left among them to evokethe ghost of a manly sentiment in that sty of transformed humanityin which they had long voluntarily wallowed. No heart was left themto do, or dare, or even nobly to die.
And so Nero, while sitting at dinner, received fresh letters, tellinghim that his sluggishness and ineptitude had alienated from him thelast semblance of allegiance among the legions; Otho had declaredagainst him in Lusitania; Clodius Macer, in Africa; Vespasian, moreor less covertly, in Syria. The bitterness of death was come, if itwas not passed. In petulant passion he tore the letters to pieces.Then, like a spoilt boy in a rage, he seized from the table twocrystal cups, of priceless value, of which he was specially fond,and which were embossed with scenes from Homer, and dashed them toshivers on the marble floor.
More wild and wicked follies suggested themselves to his diseasedand whirling brain. Why should he not again set fire to the city,and prevent all attempts to extinguish the flames, by sending to thevivaria of the amphitheatre, and letting loose all the wild beastsamong the people? What a scene it would be! Lions, and tigers, andbears, and panthers, growling, leaping, roaring, amid the streets ofa city bursting everywhere into conflagration, and--while themselveswild with terror--striking fresh terror into a screaming populace!Incapable of consecutive thought, he had not even considered whatwould come of this. Suffice it that it would be a magnificentexcitement, a thrilling and supreme sensation! He did not repentof this design; he was not appalled by the stupendous and selfishwickedness; he was only deterred by the impossibility of carrying itout. It may be said that such schemes betray the madman; but Nero’sbrain was undisturbed by any madness except that which consists in,and is the Nemesis of, a soul eaten away by conceit, selfishness, andlust. Caligula, it has been truly said, would, in modern days, havefound his way to Bedlam; but Nero to Tyburn. His hour was come. Hesent his most trusted freedman to Ostia to prepare the fleet. Hesounded the tribunes and centurions of the Prætorian guard to see ifthey would share his flight. Some of them made excuses; some flatlyrefused; one of them even dared to quote to him the line: ‘Is it sovery difficult to die?’ As for his Præfects--Tigellinus, whom he hadladen with wealth and honours; Nymphidius, the son of a slave-woman--creatures who had crawled and sunned themselves in the noon of hisprosperity, they shamelessly and without hesitation betrayed andabandoned him. The poisonous sunlight of his favour had bred nocreature nobler than adders. What should he do? Should he arrayhimself in his tragic robe and present himself as a suppliantbefore the Parthians, or before Galba, moving them to tears by hishistrionic skill? But how could he get so far in safety? No; he wouldcl
othe himself in black garments, would go to the Forum, and therewould weep before the Rostra, imploring pardon for the past, andbegging the people--if only he succeeded in moving their minds--atleast to allow him to be Præfect of Egypt in place of TiberiusAlexander! He even wrote the oration which he intended to deliver onthe occasion, and it was found in his writing-desk after his death.His one dread was that, if he so much as ventured outside the gatesof the Golden House, he would be torn to pieces before he couldmake his way to the Forum. He postponed the decision, and, summoningLocusta, obtained from her a poison which he placed in a goldenbox. Then he passed over to his favourite retreat in the Serviliangardens, and slept as well as he could his last wretched sleep onearth.