Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (detective books to read .TXT) 📖

appeared at intervals; the past and the spirit of Rome was

burning. But he, Cæsar, was there with a lute in his hand and a

theatrical expression on his face, not thinking of his perishing

country, but of his posture and the prophetic words with which he might

describe best the greatness of the catastrophe, rouse most admiration,

and receive the warmest plaudits. He detested that city, he detested

its inhabitants, beloved only his own songs and verses; hence he

rejoiced in heart that at last he saw a tragedy like that which he was

writing. The verse-maker was happy, the declaimer felt inspired, the

seeker for emotions was delighted at the awful sight, and thought with

rapture that even the destruction of Troy was as nothing if compared

with the destruction of that giant city. What more could he desire?

There was world-ruling Rome in flames, and he, standing on the arches of

the aqueduct with a golden lute, conspicuous, purple, admired,

magnificent, poetic. Down below, somewhere in the darkness, the people

are muttering and storming. But let them mutter! Ages will pass,

thousands of years will go by, but mankind will remember and glorify the

poet, who in that night sang the fall and the burning of Troy. What was

Homer compared with him? What Apollo himself with his hollowed-out

lute?

 

Here he raised his hands and, striking the strings, pronounced the words

of Priam.

 

“O nest of my fathers, O dear cradle!” His voice in the open air, with

the roar of the conflagration, and the distant murmur of crowding

thousands, seemed marvellously weak, uncertain, and low, and the sound

of the accompaniment like the buzzing of insects. But senators,

dignitaries, and Augustians, assembled on the aqueduct, bowed their

heads and listened in silent rapture. He sang long, and his motive was

ever sadder. At moments, when he stopped to catch breath, the chorus of

singers repeated the last verse; then Nero cast the tragic “syrma” [A

robe with train, worn especially by tragic actors] from his shoulder

with a gesture learned from Aliturus, struck the lute, and sang on.

When at last he had finished the lines composed, he improvised, seeking

grandiose comparisons in the spectacle unfolded before him. His face

began to change. He was not moved, it is true, by the destruction of

his country’s capital; but he was delighted and moved with the pathos of

his own words to such a degree that his eyes filled with tears on a

sudden. At last he dropped the lute to his feet with a clatter, and,

wrapping himself in the “syrma,” stood as if petrified, like one of

those statues of Niobe which ornamented the courtyard of the Palatine.

 

Soon a storm of applause broke the silence. But in the distance this

was answered by the howling of multitudes. No one doubted then that

Cæsar had given command to burn the city, so as to afford himself a

spectacle and sing a song at it. Nero, when he heard that cry from

hundreds of thousands, turned to the Augustians with the sad, resigned

smile of a man who is suffering from injustice.

 

“See,” said he, “how the Quirites value poetry and me.”

 

“Scoundrels!” answered Vatinius. “Command the pretorians, lord, to fall

on them.”

 

Nero turned to Tigellinus,—

 

“Can I count on the loyalty of the soldiers?”

 

“Yes, divinity,” answered the prefect.

 

But Petronius shrugged his shoulders, and said,—

 

“On their loyalty, yes, but not on their numbers. Remain meanwhile

where thou art, for here it is safest; but there is need to pacify the

people.”

 

Seneca was of this opinion also, as was Licinus the consul. Meanwhile

the excitement below was increasing. The people were arming with

stones, tent-poles, sticks from the wagons, planks, and various pieces

of iron. After a while some of the pretorian leaders came, declaring

that the cohorts, pressed by the multitude, kept the line of battle with

extreme difficulty, and, being without orders to attack, they knew not

what to do.

 

“O gods,” said Nero, “what a night!” On one side a fire, on the other a

raging sea of people. And he fell to seeking expressions the most

splendid to describe the danger of the moment, but, seeing around him

alarmed looks and pale faces, he was frightened, with the others.

 

“Give me my dark mantle with a hood!” cried he; “must it come really to

battle?”

 

“Lord,” said Tigellinus, in an uncertain voice, “I have done what I

could, but danger is threatening. Speak, O lord, to the people, and

make them promises.”

 

“Shall Cæsar speak to the rabble? Let another do that in my name. Who

will undertake it?”

 

“I!” answered Petronius, calmly.

 

“Go, my friend; thou art most faithful to me in every necessity. Go,

and spare no promises.”

 

Petronius turned to the retinue with a careless, sarcastic expression,—

 

“Senators here present, also Piso, Nerva, and Senecio, follow me.”

 

Then he descended the aqueduct slowly. Those whom he had summoned

followed, not without hesitation, but with a certain confidence which

his calmness had given them. Petronius, halting at the foot of the

arches, gave command to bring him a white horse, and, mounting, rode on,

at the head of the cavalcade, between the deep ranks of pretorians, to

the black, howling multitude; he was unarmed, having only a slender

ivory cane which he carried habitually.

 

When he had ridden up, he pushed his horse into the throng. All around,

visible in the light of the burning, were upraised hands, armed with

every manner of weapon, inflamed eyes, sweating faces, bellowing and

foaming lips. A mad sea of people surrounded him and his attendants;

round about was a sea of heads, moving, roaring, dreadful.

 

The outbursts increased and became an unearthly roar; poles, forks, and

even swords were brandished above Petronius; grasping hands were

stretched toward his horse’s reins and toward him, but he rode farther;

cool, indifferent, contemptuous. At moments he struck the most insolent

heads with his cane, as if clearing a road for himself in an ordinary

crowd; and that confidence of his, that calmness, amazed the raging

rabble. They recognized him at length, and numerous voices began to

shout,—

 

“Petronius! Arbiter Elegantiarum! Petronius! Petronius!” was heard on

all sides. And as that name was repeated, the faces about became less

terrible, the uproar less savage: for that exquisite patrician, though

he had never striven for the favor of the populace, was still their

favorite. He passed for a humane and magnanimous man; and his

popularity had increased, especially since the affair of Pedanius

Secundus, when he spoke in favor of mitigating the cruel sentence

condemning all the slaves of that prefect to death. The slaves more

especially loved him thenceforward with that unbounded love which the

oppressed or unfortunate are accustomed to give those who show them even

small sympathy. Besides, in that moment was added curiosity as to what

Cæsar’s envoy would say, for no one doubted that Cæsar had sent him.

 

He removed his white toga, bordered with scarlet, raised it in the air,

and waved it above his head, in sign that he wished to speak.

 

“Silence! Silence!” cried the people on all sides.

 

After a while there was silence. Then he straightened himself on the

horse and said in a clear, firm voice,—

 

“Citizens, let those who hear me repeat my words to those who are more

distant, and bear yourselves, all of you, like men, not like beasts in

the arena.”

 

“We will, we will!”

 

“Then listen. The city will be rebuilt. The gardens of Lucullus,

Mæcenas, Cæsar, and Agrippina will be opened to you. Tomorrow will

begin the distribution of wheat, wine, and olives, so that every man may

be full to the throat. Then Cæsar will have games for you, such as the

world has not seen yet; during these games banquets and gifts will be

given you. Ye will be richer after the fire than before it.”

 

A murmur answered him which spread from the centre in every direction,

as a wave rises on water in which a stone has been cast. Those nearer

repeated his words to those more distant. Afterward were heard here and

there shouts of anger or applause, which turned at length into one

universal call of “Panem et circenses!!!”

 

Petronius wrapped himself in his toga and listened for a time without

moving, resembling in his white garment a marble statue. The uproar

increased, drowned the roar of the fire, was answered from every side and

from ever-increasing distances. But evidently the envoy had something

to add, for he waited. Finally, commanding silence anew, he cried,—“I

promised you panem et circenses; and now give a shout in honor of Cæsar,

who feeds and clothes you; then go to sleep, dear populace, for the dawn

will begin before long.”

 

He turned his horse then, and, tapping lightly with his cane the heads

and faces of those who stood in his way, he rode slowly to the pretorian

ranks. Soon he was under the aqueduct. He found almost a panic above,

where they had not understood the shout “Panem et circenses,” and

supposed it to be a new outburst of rage. They had not even expected

that Petronius would save himself; so Nero, when he saw him, ran to the

steps, and with face pale from emotion, inquired,—

 

“Well, what are they doing? Is there a battle?”

 

Petronius drew air into his lungs, breathed deeply, and answered,—“By

Pollux! they are sweating! and such a stench! Will some one give me an

epilimma?—for I am faint.” Then he turned to Cæsar.

 

“I promised them,” said he, “wheat, olives, the opening of the gardens,

and games. They worship thee anew, and are howling in thy honor. Gods,

what a foul odor those plebeians have!”

 

“I had pretorians ready,” cried Tigellinus; “and hadst thou not quieted

them, the shouters would have been silenced forever. It is a pity,

Cæsar, that thou didst not let me use force.”

 

Petronius looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and added,—

 

“The chance is not lost. Thou mayst have to use it tomorrow.”

 

“No, no!” cried Cæsar, “I will give command to open the gardens to them,

and distribute wheat. Thanks to thee, Petronius, I will have games; and

that song, which I sang to-day, I will sing publicly.”

 

Then he placed his hands on the arbiter’s shoulder, was silent a moment,

and starting up at last inquired,—

 

“Tell me sincerely, how did I seem to thee while I was singing?”

 

“Thou wert worthy of the spectacle, and the spectacle was worthy of

thee,” said Petronius.

 

“But let us look at it again,” said he, turning to the fire, “and bid

farewell to ancient Rome.”