Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (detective books to read .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Henryk Sienkiewicz
- Performer: -
Book online «Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (detective books to read .TXT) 📖». Author Henryk Sienkiewicz
skilled Greek in the twinkle of an eye opened the vein at the bend of
the arm. Blood spurted on the cushion, and covered Eunice, who,
supporting the head of Petronius, bent over him and said,—
“Didst thou think that I would leave thee? If the gods gave me
immortality, and Cæsar gave me power over the earth, I would follow thee
still.”
Petronius smiled, raised himself a little, touched her lips with his,
and said,—
“Come with me.”
She stretched her rosy arm to the physician, and after a while her blood
began to mingle and be lost in his blood.
Then he gave a signal to the leader of the music, and again the voices
and cithariæ were heard. They sang “Harmodius”; next the song of
Anacreon resounded,—that song in which he complained that on a time he
had found Aphrodite’s boy chilled and weeping under trees; that he
brought him in, warmed him, dried his wings, and the ungrateful child
pierced his heart with an arrow,—from that moment peace had deserted
the poet.
Petronius and Eunice, resting against each other, beautiful as two
divinities, listened, smiling and growing pale. At the end of the song
Petronius gave directions to serve more wine and food; then he conversed
with the guests sitting near him of trifling but pleasant things, such
as are mentioned usually at feasts. Finally, he called to the Greek to
bind his arm for a moment; for he said that sleep was tormenting him,
and he wanted to yield himself to Hypnos before Thanatos put him to
sleep forever.
In fact, he fell asleep. When he woke, the head of Eunice was lying on
his breast like a white flower. He placed it on the pillow to look at
it once more. After that his veins were opened again.
At his signal the singers raised the song of Anacreon anew, and the
citharæ accompanied them so softly as not to drown a word. Petronius
grew paler and paler; but when the last sound had ceased, he turned to
his guests again and said,
“Friends, confess that with us perishes—”
But he had not power to finish; his arm with its last movement embraced
Eunice, his head fell on the pillow, and he died.
The guests looking at those two white forms, which resembled two
wonderful statues, understood well that with them perished all that was
left to their world at that time,—poetry and beauty.
AT first the revolt of the Gallic legions under Vindex did not seem very
serious. Cæsar was only in his thirty-first year, and no one was bold
enough to hope that the world could be freed so soon from the nightmare
which was stifling it. Men remembered that revolts had occurred more
than once among the legions,—they had occurred in previous reigns,—
revolts, however, which passed without involving a change of government;
as during the reign of Tiberius, Drusus put down the revolt of the
Pannonian legions. “Who,” said the people, “can take the government
after Nero, since all the descendants of the divine Augustus have
perished?” Others, looking at the Colossus, imagined him a Hercules,
and thought that no force could break such power. There were those even
who since he went to Achæa were sorry for him, because Helius and
Polythetes, to whom he left the government of Rome and Italy, governed
more murderously than he had.
No one was sure of life or property. Law ceased to protect. Human
dignity and virtue had perished, family bonds existed no longer, and
degraded hearts did not even dare to admit hope. From Greece came
accounts of the incomparable triumphs of Cæsar, of the thousands of
crowns which he had won, the thousands of competitors whom he had
vanquished. The world seemed to be one orgy of buffoonery and blood;
but at the same time the opinion was fixed that virtue and deeds of
dignity had ceased, that the time of dancing and music, of profligacy,
of blood, had come, and that life must flow on for the future in that
way. Cæsar himself, to whom rebellion opened the road to new robberies,
was not concerned much about the revolt of the legions and Vindex; he
even expressed his delight on that subject frequently. He did not wish
to leave Achæa even; and only when Helius informed him that further
delay might cause the loss of dominion did he move to Naples.
There he played and sang, neglecting news of events of growing danger.
In vain did Tigellinus explain to him that former rebellions of legions
had no leaders, while at the head of affairs this time was a man
descended from the ancient kings of Gaul and Aquitania, a famous and
tried soldier. “Here,” answered Nero, “the Greeks listen to me,—the
Greeks, who alone know how to listen, and who alone are worthy of my
song.” He said that his first duty was art and glory. But when at last
the news came that Vindex had proclaimed him a wretched artist, he
sprang up and moved toward Rome. The wounds inflicted by Petronius, and
healed by his stay in Greece, opened in his heart anew, and he wished to
seek retribution from the Senate for such unheard-of injustice.
On the road he saw a group cast in bronze, representing a Gallic warrior
as overcome by a Roman knight; he considered that a good omen, and
thenceforward, if he mentioned the rebellious legions and Vindex, it was
only to ridicule them. His entrance to the city surpassed all that had
been witnessed earlier. He entered in the chariot used by Augustus in
his triumph. One arch of the Circus was destroyed to give a road to the
procession. The Senate, knights, and innumerable throngs of people went
forth to meet him. The walls trembled from shouts of “Hail, Augustus!
Hail, Hercules! Hail, divinity, the incomparable, the Olympian, the
Pythian, the immortal!” Behind him were borne the crowns, the names of
cities in which he had triumphed; and on tablets were inscribed the
names of the masters whom he had vanquished. Nero himself was
intoxicated with delight, and with emotion he asked the Augustians who
stood around him, “What was the triumph of Julius compared with this?”
The idea that any mortal should dare to raise a hand on such a demigod
did not enter his head. He felt himself really Olympian, and therefore
safe. The excitement and the madness of the crowd roused his own
madness. In fact, it might seem in the day of that triumph that not
merely Cæsar and the city, but the world, had lost its senses.
Through the flowers and the piles of wreaths no one could see the
precipice. Still that same evening columns and walls of temples were
covered with inscriptions, describing Nero’s crimes, threatening him
with coming vengeance, and ridiculing him as an artist. From mouth to
mouth went the phrase, “He sang till he roused the Gauls.” Alarming
news made the rounds of the city, and reached enormous measures. Alarm
seized the Augustians. People, uncertain of the future, dazed not
express hopes or wishes; they hardly dared to feel or think.
But he went on living only in the theatre and music. Instruments newly
invented occupied him, and a new water-organ, of which trials were made
on the Palatine. With childish mind, incapable of plan or action, he
imagined that he could ward off danger by promises of spectacles and
theatrical exhibitions reaching far into the future, Persons nearest
him, seeing that instead of providing means and an army, he was merely
searching for expressions to depict the danger graphically, began to
lose their heads. Others thought that he was simply deafening himself
and others with quotations, while in his soul he was alarmed and
terrified. In fact, his acts became feverish. Every day a thousand new
plans flew through his head. At times he sprang up to rush out against
danger; gave command to pack up his lutes and citharæ, to arm the young
slave women as Amazons, and lead the legions to the East. Again he
thought to finish the rebellion of the Gallic legions, not with war, but
with song; and his soul laughed at the spectacle which was to follow his
conquest of the soldiers by song. The legionaries would surround him
with tears in their eyes; he would sing to them an epinicium, after
which the golden epoch would begin for him and for Rome. At one time he
called for blood; at another he declared that he would be satisfied with
governing in Egypt. He recalled the prediction which promised him
lordship in Jerusalem, and he was moved by the thought that as a
wandering minstrel he would earn his daily bread,—that cities and
countries would honor in him, not Cæsar, the lord of the earth, but a
poet whose like the world had not produced before. And so he struggled,
raged, played, sang, changed his plan, changed his quotations, changed
his life and the world into a dream absurd, fantastic, dreadful, into an
uproarious hunt composed of unnatural expressions, bad verses, groans,
tears, and blood; but meanwhile the cloud in the west was increasing and
thickening every day. The measure was exceeded; the insane comedy was
nearing its end.
When news that Galba and Spain had joined the uprising came to his ears,
he fell into rage and madness. He broke goblets, overturned the table
at a feast, and issued orders which neither Helius nor Tigeliinus
himself dared to execute. To kill Gauls resident in Rome, fire the city
a second time, let out the wild beasts, and transfer the capital to
Alexandria seemed to him great, astonishing, and easy. But the days of
his dominion had passed, and even those who shared in his former crimes
began to look on him as a madman.
The death of Vindex, and disagreement in the revolting legions seemed,
however, to turn the scale to his side. Again new feasts, new triumphs,
and new sentences were issued in Rome, till a certain night when a
messenger rushed up on a foaming horse, with the news that in the city
itself the soldiers had raised the standard of revolt, and proclaimed
Galba Cæsar.
Nero was asleep when the messenger came; but when he woke he called in
vain for the night-guard, which watched at the entrance to his chambers.
The palace was empty. Slaves were plundering in the most distant
corners that which could be taken most quickly. But the sight of Nero
frightened them; he wandered alone through the palace, filling it with
cries of despair and fear.
At last his freedmen, Phaon, Sporus, and Epaphroditus, came to his
rescue. They wished him to flee, and said that there was no time to be
lost; but he deceived himself still. If he should dress in mourning and
speak to the Senate, would it resist his prayers and eloquence? If he
should use all his eloquence, his rhetoric and skill of an actor, would
any one on earth have power to resist him? Would they not give him even
the prefecture of Egypt?
The freedmen, accustomed to flatter, had not the boldness yet to refuse
him directly; they only warned him that before he could reach the Forum
the people would tear him to pieces, and declared that if he did not
mount his horse immediately, they too would desert him.
Phaon offered refuge in his villa outside the Nomentan Gate. After a
while they mounted horses, and, covering Nero’s head with a mantle, they
galloped off toward the edge of the city. The night was growing pale.
But on the streets there was a movement which showed the exceptional
nature of the time. Soldiers, now
Comments (0)