Quo Vadis, Henryk Sienkiewicz [e book reader android .TXT] 📗

EPILOGUE

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