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

Chapter XLVIII

CAMPS of people were disposed in the lordly gardens of Cæsar, formerly

gardens of Domitius and Agrippina; they were disposed also on the Campus

Martius, in the gardens of Pompey, Sallust, and Mæcenas, in porticos,

tennis-courts, splendid summer-houses, and buildings erected for wild

beasts. Peacocks, flamingoes, swans, ostriches, gazelles, African

antelopes, and deer, which had served as ornaments to those gardens,

went under the knives of the rabble. Provisions began to come in now

from Ostria so abundantly that one might walk, as on a bridge, over

ships, boats, and barges from one bank of the Tiber to the other. Wheat

was sold at the unheard-of low price of three sestertia, and was given

gratis to the indigent. Immense supplies of wine, olives, and chestnuts

were brought to the city; sheep and cattle were driven in every day from

the mountains. Wretches who before the fire had been hiding in alleys

of the Subura, and were perishing of hunger in ordinary times, had a

more pleasant life now. The danger of famine was averted completely,

but it was more difficult to suppress robbery, murder, and abuses. A

nomadic life insured impunity to thieves; the more easily since they

proclaimed themselves admirers of Cæsar, and were unsparing of plaudits

wherever he appeared. Moreover, when, by the pressure of events, the

authorities were in abeyance, and there was a lack of armed force to

quell insolence in a city inhabited by the dregs of contemporary

mankind, deeds were done which passed human imagination. Every night

there were battles and murders; every night boys and women were snatched

away. At the Porta Mugionis, where there was a halting-place for herds

driven in from the Campania, it come to engagements in which people

perished by hundreds. Every morning the banks of the Tiber were covered

with drowned bodies, which no one collected; these decayed quickly

because of heat heightened by fire, and filled the air with foul odors.

Sickness broke out on the camping-grounds, and the more timorous foresaw

a great pestilence.

 

But the city burned on unceasingly. Only on the sixth day, when the

fire reached empty spaces on the Esquiline, where an enormous number of

houses had been demolished purposely, did it weaken. But the piles of

burning cinders gave such strong light yet that people would not believe

that the end of the catastrophe had come. In fact the fire burst forth

with fresh force on the seventh night in the buildings of Tigellinus,

but had short duration for lack of fuel. Burnt houses, however, fell

here and there, and threw up towers of flame and pillars of sparks. But

the glowing ruins began to grow black on the surface. After sunset the

heavens ceased to gleam with bloody light, and only after dark did blue

tongues quiver above the extended black waste, tongues which rose from

piles of cinders.

 

Of the fourteen divisions of Rome there remained only four, including

the Trans-Tiber. Flames had consumed all the others. When at last the

piles of cinders had been turned into ashes, an immense space was

visible from the Tiber to the Esquiline, gray, gloomy, dead. In this

space stood rows of chimneys, like columns over graves in a cemetery.

Among these columns gloomy crowds of people moved about in the daytime,

some seeking for precious objects, others for the bones of those dear to

them. In the night dogs howled above the ashes and ruins of former

dwellings.

 

All the bounty and aid shown by Cæsar to the populace did not restrain

evil speech and indignation. Only the herd of robbers, criminals, and

homeless ruffians, who could eat, drink, and rob enough, were contented.

People who had lost all their property and their nearest relatives were

not won over by the opening of gardens, the distribution of bread, or

the promise of games and gifts. The catastrophe had been too great and

unparalleled. Others, in whom was hidden yet some spark of love for the

city and their birthplace, were brought to despair by news that the old

name “Roma” was to vanish, and that from the ashes of the capital Cæsar

would erect a new city called Neropolis. A flood of hatred rose and

swelled every day, despite the flatteries of the Augustians and the

calumnies of Tigellinus. Nero, more sensitive than any former Cæsar to

the favor of the populace, thought with alarm that in the sullen and

mortal struggle which he was waging with patricians in the Senate, he

might lack support. The Augustians themselves were not less alarmed,

for any morning might bring them destruction. Tigellinus thought of

summoning certain legions from Asia Minor. Vatinius, who laughed even

when slapped on the face, lost his humor; Vitelius lost his appetite.

 

Others were taking counsel among themselves how to avert the danger, for

it was no secret that were an outburst to carry off Cæsar, not one of

the Augustians would escape, except, perhaps, Petronius. To their

influence were ascribed the madnesses of Nero, to their suggestions all

the crimes which he committed. Hatred for them almost surpassed that

for Nero. Hence some began to make efforts to rid themselves of

responsibility for the burning of the city. But to free themselves they

must clear Cæsar also from suspicion, or no one would believe that they

had not caused the catastrophe. Tigellinus took counsel on this subject

with Domitius Afer, and even with Seneca, though he hated him. Poppæa,

who understood that the ruin of Nero would be her own sentence, took the

opinion of her confidants and of Hebrew priests, for it had been

admitted for years that she held the faith of Jehovah. Nero found his

own methods, which, frequently terrible, were more frequently foolish,

and fell now into terror, now into childish delight, but above all he

complained.

 

On a time a long and fruitless consultation was held in the house of

Tiberius, which had survived the fire. Petronius thought it best to

leave troubles, go to Greece, thence to Egypt and Asia Minor. The

journey had been planned long before; why defer it, when in Rome were

sadness and danger?

 

Cæsar accepted the counsel with eagerness; but Seneca when he had

thought awhile, said,—

 

“It is easy to go, but it would be more difficult to return.”

 

“By Heracles!” replied Petronius, “we may return at the head of Asiatic

legions.”

 

“This will I do!” exclaimed Nero.

 

But Tigellinus opposed. He could discover nothing himself, and if the

arbiter’s idea had come to his own head he would beyond doubt have

declared it the saving one; but with him the question was that Petronius

might not be a second time the only man who in difficult moments could

rescue all and every one.

 

“Hear me, divinity,” said he, “this advice is destructive! Before thou

art at Ostia a civil war will break out; who knows but one of the

surviving collateral descendants of the divine Augustus will declare

himself Cæsar, and what shall we do if the legions take his side?”

 

“We shall try,” answered Nero, “that there be no descendants of

Augustus. There are not many now; hence it is easy to rid ourselves of

them.”

 

“It is possible to do so, but is it a question of them alone? No longer

ago than yesterday my people heard in the crowd that a man like Thrasea

should be Cæsar.”

 

Nero bit his lips. After a while he raised his eyes and said:

“Insatiable and thankless. They have grain enough, and they have coal

on which to bake cakes; what more do they want?”

 

“Vengeance!” replied Tigellinus.

 

Silence followed. Cæsar rose on a sudden, extended his hand, and began

to declaim,—

 

“Hearts call for vengeance, and vengeance wants a victim.” Then,

forgetting everything, he said, with radiant face: “Give me the tablet

and stilus to write this line. Never could Lucan have composed the

like. Have ye noticed that I found it in a twinkle?”

 

“O incomparable!” exclaimed a number of voices. Nero wrote down the

line, and said,—

 

“Yes, vengeance wants a victim.” Then he cast a glance on those around

him. “But if we spread the report that Vatinius gave command to burn

the city, and devote him to the anger of the people?”

 

“O divinity! Who am I?” exclaimed Vatmius.

 

“True! One more important than thou is demanded. Is it Vitelius?”

 

Vitelius grew pale, but began to laugh.

 

“My fat,” answered he, “might start the fire again.”

 

But Nero had something else on his mind; in his soul he was looking for

a victim who might really satisfy the people’s anger, and he found him.

 

“Tigellinus,” said he after a while, “it was thou who didst burn Rome!”

A shiver ran through those present. They understood that Cæsar had

ceased to jest this time, and that a moment had come which was pregnant

with events.

 

The face of Tigellinus was wrinkled, like the lips of a dog about to

bite.

 

“I burnt Rome at thy command!” said he.

 

And the two glared at each other like a pair of devils. Such silence

followed that the buzzing of flies was heard as they flew through the

atrium.

 

“Tigellinus,” said Nero, “dost thou love me?”

 

“Thou knowest, lord.”

 

“Sacrifice thyself for me.”

 

“O divine Cæsar,” answered Tigellinus, “why present the sweet cup which

I may not raise to my lips? The people are muttering and rising; dost

thou wish the pretorians also to rise?”

 

A feeling of terror pressed the hearts of those present. Tigellinus was

pretorian prefect, and his words had the direct meaning of a threat.

Nero himself understood this, and his face became pallid.

 

At that moment Epaphroditus, Cæsar’s freedman, entered, announcing that

the divine Augusta wished to see Tigellinus, as there were people in her

apartments whom the prefect ought to hear.

 

Tigellinus bowed to Cæsar, and went out with a face calm and

contemptuous. Now, when they had wished to strike him, he had shown his

teeth; he had made them understand who he was, and, knowing Nero’s

cowardice, he was confident that that ruler of the world would never

dare to raise a hand against him.

 

Nero sat in silence for a moment; then, seeing that those present

expected some answer, he said,—

 

“I have reared a serpent in my bosom.”

 

Petronius shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that it was not difficult

to pluck the head from such a serpent.

 

“What wilt thou say? Speak, advise!” exclaimed Nero, noticing this

motion. “I trust in thee alone, for thou hast more sense than all of

them, and thou lovest me.”

 

Petronius had the following on his lips: “Make me pretorian prefect, I

will deliver Tigellinus to the people, and pacify the city in a day.”

But his innate slothfulness prevailed. To be prefect meant to bear on

his shoulder’s Cæsar’s person and also thousands of public affairs. And

why should he perform that labor? Was it not better to read poetry in

his splendid library, look at vases and statues, or hold to his breast

the divine body of Eunice, twining her golden hair through his fingers,

and inclining his lips to her coral mouth? Hence he said,—

 

“I advise the journey to Achæa.”

 

“Ah!” answered Nero, “I looked for something more from thee. The Senate

hates me. If I depart, who will guarantee that it will not revolt and

proclaim some one else Cæsar? The people have been faithful to me so

far, but now they will follow the Senate. By Hades! if that Senate and

that people had one head!—”

 

“Permit me to say,