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

the invitation through a centurion. They will ask the

centurion in the evening how I received him. No, no! thou wilt not

amuse thyself overmuch, cruel and wicked prophet. I know that thou wilt

not forget the offence, I know that my destruction will not fail; but if

thou think that I shall look into thy eyes imploringly, that thou wilt

see fear and humility on my face, thou art mistaken.”

 

“Cæsar writes, lord,” said Eunice, “‘Come if thou hast the wish’; wilt

thou go?”

 

“I am in excellent health, and can listen even to his verses,” answered

Petronius; “hence I shall go, all the more since Vinicius cannot go.”

 

In fact, after the dinner was finished and after the usual walk, he gave

himself into the hands of hairdressers and of slaves who arranged his

robes, and an hour later, beautiful as a god, he gave command to take

him to the Palatine.

 

It was late, the evening was warm and calm; the moon shone so brightly

that the lampadarii going before the litter put out their torches. On

the streets and among the ruins crowds of people were pushing along,

drunk with wine, in garlands of ivy and honeysuckle, bearing in their

hands branches of myrtle and laurel taken from Cæsar’s gardens.

Abundance of grain and hopes of great games filled the hearts of all

with gladness. Here and there songs were sung magnifying the “divine

night” and love; here and there they were dancing by the light of the

moon, and the slaves were forced repeatedly to demand space for the

litter “of the noble Petronius,” and then the crowd pushed apart,

shouting in honor of their favorite.

 

He was thinking of Vinicius, and wondering why he had no news from him.

He was an Epicurean and an egotist, but passing time, now with Paul of

Tarsus, now with Vinicius, hearing daily of the Christians, he had

changed somewhat without his own knowledge. A certain breeze from them

had blown on him; this cast new seeds into his soul. Besides his own

person others began to occupy him; moreover, he had been always attached

to Vinicius, for in childhood he had loved greatly his sister, the

mother of Vinicius; at present, therefore, when he had taken part in his

affairs, he looked on them with that interest with which he would have

looked on some tragedy.

 

Petronius did not lose hope that Vinicius had anticipated the pretorians

and fled with Lygia, or, in the worse case, had rescued her. But he

would have preferred to be certain, since he foresaw that he might have

to answer various questions for which he would better be prepared.

 

Stopping before the house of Tiberius, he alighted from the litter, and

after a while entered the atrium, filled already with Augustians.

Yesterday’s friends, though astonished that he was invited, still pushed

back; but he moved on among them, beautiful, free, unconcerned, as self-confident as if he himself had the power to distribute favors. Some,

seeing him thus, were alarmed in spirit lest they had shown him

indifference too early.

 

Cæsar, however, feigned not to see him, and did not return his

obeisance, pretending to be occupied in conversation. But Tigellinus

approached and said,

 

“Good evening, Arbiter Elegantiarum. Dost thou assert still that it was

not the Christians who burnt Rome?”

 

Petronius shrugged his shoulders, and, clapping Tigellinus on the back

as he would a freedman, answered,—

 

“Thou knowest as well as I what to think of that.”

 

“I do not dare to rival thee in wisdom.”

 

“And thou art right, for when Cæsar reads to us a new book from the

Troyad, thou, instead of crying out like a jackdaw, wouldst have to give

an opinion that was not pointless.”

 

Tigellinus bit his lips. He was not over-rejoiced that Cæsar had

decided to read a new book, for that opened a field in which he could

not rival Petronius. In fact, during the reading, Nero, from habit,

turned his eyes involuntarily toward Petronius, looking carefully to see

what he could read in his face. The latter listened, raised his brows,

agreed at times, in places increased his attention as if to be sure that

he heard correctly. Then he praised or criticised, demanded corrections

or the smoothing of certain verses. Nero himself felt that for others

in their exaggerated praises it was simply a question of themselves,

that Petronius alone was occupied with poetry for its own sake; that he

alone understood it, and that if he praised one could be sure that the

verses deserved praise. Gradually therefore he began to discuss with

him, to dispute; and when at last Petronius brought the fitness of a

certain expression into doubt, he said,—

 

“Thou wilt see in the last book why I used it.”

 

“Ah,” thought Petronius, “then we shall wait for the last book.”

 

More than one hearing this said in spirit: “Woe to me! Petronius with

time before him may return to favor and overturn even Tigellinus.” And

they began again to approach him. But the end of the evening was less

fortunate; for Cæsar, at the moment when Petronius was taking leave,

inquired suddenly, with blinking eyes and a face at once glad and

malicious,—

 

“But why did not Vinicius come?”

 

Had Petronius been sure that Vinicius and Lygia were beyond the gates of

the city, he would have answered, “With thy permission he has married

and gone.” But seeing Nero’s strange smile, he answered,—

 

“Thy invitation, divinity, did not find him at home.”

 

“Say to Vinicius that I shall be glad to see him,” answered Nero, “and

tell him from me not to neglect the games in which Christians will

appear.”

 

These words alarmed Petronius. It seemed to him that they related to

Lygia directly. Sitting in his litter, he gave command to bear him home

still more quickly than in the morning. That, however, was not easy.

Before the house of Tiberius stood a crowd dense and noisy, drunk as

before, though not singing and dancing, but, as it were, excited. From

afar came certain shouts which Petronius could not understand at once,

but which rose and grew till at last they were one savage roar,—

 

“To the lions with Christians!”

 

Rich litters of courtiers pushed through the howling rabble. From the

depth of burnt streets new crowds rushed forth continually; these,

hearing the cry, repeated it. News passed from mouth to mouth that the

pursuit had continued from the forenoon, that a multitude of

incendiaries were seized; and immediately along the newly cleared and

the old streets, through alleys lying among ruins around the Palatine,

over all the hills and gardens were heard through the length and breadth

of Rome shouts of swelling rage,—

 

“To the lions with Christians!”

 

“Herd!” repeated Petronius, with contempt; “a people worthy of Cæsar!”

And he began to think that a society resting on superior force, on

cruelty of which even barbarians had no conception, on crimes and mad

profligacy, could not endure. Rome ruled the world, but was also its

ulcer. The odor of a corpse was rising from it. Over its decaying life

the shadow of death was descending. More than once this had been

mentioned even among the Augustians, but never before had Petronius had

a clearer view of this truth that the laurelled chariot on which Rome

stood in the form of a triumphator, and which dragged behind a chained

herd of nations, was going to the precipice. The life of that world-ruling city seemed to him a kind of mad dance, an orgy, which must end.

He saw then that the Christians alone had a new basis of life; but he

judged that soon there would not remain a trace of the Christians. And

what then?

 

The mad dance would continue under Nero; and if Nero disappeared,

another would be found of the same kind or worse, for with such a people

and such patricians there was no reason to find a better leader. There

would be a new orgy, and moreover a fouler and a viler one.

 

But the orgy could not last forever, and there would be need of sleep

when it was over, even because of simple exhaustion.

 

While thinking of this, Petronius felt immensely wearied. Was it worth

while to live, and live in uncertainty, with no purpose but to look at

such a society? The genius of death was not less beautiful than the

genius of sleep, and he also had wings at his shoulders.

 

The litter stopped before the arbiter’s door, which was opened that

instant by the watchful keeper.

 

“Has the noble Vinicius returned?” inquired Petronius.

 

“Yes, lord, a moment ago,” replied the slave.

 

“He has not rescued her,” thought Petronius. And casting aside his

toga, he ran into the atrium. Vinicius was sitting on a stool; his head

bent almost to his knees with his hands on his head; but at the sound of

steps he raised his stony face, in which the eyes alone had a feverish

brightness.

 

“Thou wert late?” asked Petronius.

 

“Yes; they seized her before midday.”

 

A moment of silence followed.

 

“Hast thou seen her?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“In the Mamertine prison.”

 

Petronius trembled and looked at Vinicius with an inquiring glance. The

latter understood.

 

“No,” said he. “She was not thrust down to the Tullianum [The lowest

part of the prison, lying entirely underground, with a single opening in

the ceiling. Jugurtha died there of hunger.] nor even to the middle

prison. I paid the guard to give her his own room. Ursus took his

place at the threshold and is guarding her.”

 

“Why did Ursus not defend her?”

 

“They sent fifty pretorians, and Linus forbade him.”

 

“But Linus?”

 

“Linus is dying; therefore they did not seize him.”

 

“What is thy intention?”

 

“To save her or die with her. I too believe in Christ.”

 

Vinicius spoke with apparent calmness; but there was such despair in his

voice that the heart of Petronius quivered from pure pity.

 

“I understand thee,” said he; “but how dost thou think to save her?”

 

“I paid the guards highly, first to shield her from indignity, and

second not to hinder her flight.”

 

“When can that happen?”

 

“They answered that they could not give her to me at once, as they

feared responsibility. When the prison will be filled with a multitude

of people, and when the tally of prisoners is confused, they will

deliver her. But that is a desperate thing! Do thou save her, and me

first! Thou art a friend of Cæsar. He himself gave her to me. Go to

him and save me!”

 

Petronius, instead of answering, called a slave, and, commanding him to

bring two dark mantles and two swords, turned to Vinicius,

 

“On the way I will tell thee,” said he. “Meanwhile take the mantle and

weapon, and we will go to the prison. There give the guards a hundred

thousand sestertia; give them twice and five times more, if they will

free Lygia at once. Otherwise it will be too late.”

 

“Let us go,” said Vinicius.

 

After a while both were on the street.

 

“Now listen to me,” said Petronius. “I did not wish to lose time. I am

in disfavor, beginning with to-day. My own life is hanging on a hair;

hence I can do nothing with Cæsar. Worse than that, I am sure that he

would act in opposition to my request. If that were not the case, would

I advise thee to flee with Lygia or to rescue her? Besides, if thou

escape, Cæsar’s wrath will turn on me.