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separating them, they were advancing

together; and he smiled at that thought as at happiness.

 

In fact, they were advancing with as much agreement as if they had

exchanged thoughts every day for a long time. Neither had Lygia any

desire, any hope, save the hope of a life beyond the grave. Death was

presented to her not only as a liberation from the terrible walls of the

prison, from the hands of Cæsar and Tigellinus,—not only as liberation,

but as the hour of her marriage to Vinicius. In view of this unshaken

certainty, all else lost importance. After death would come her

happiness, which was even earthly, so that she waited for it also as a

betrothed waits for the wedding-day.

 

And that immense current of faith, which swept away from life and bore

beyond the grave thousands of those first confessors, bore away Ursus

also. Neither had he in his heart been resigned to Lygia’s death; but

when day after day through the prison walls came news of what was

happening in the amphitheatres and the gardens, when death seemed the

common, inevitable lot of all Christians and also their good, higher

than all mortal conceptions of happiness, he did not dare to pray to

Christ to deprive Lygia of that happiness or to delay it for long years.

In his simple barbarian soul he thought, besides, that more of those

heavenly delights would belong to the daughter of the Lygian chief, that

she would have more of them than would a whole crowd of simple ones to

whom he himself belonged, and that in eternal glory she would sit nearer

to the “Lamb” than would others. He had heard, it is true, that before

God men are equal; but a conviction was lingering at the bottom of his

soul that the daughter of a leader, and besides of a leader of all the

Lygians, was not the same as the first slave one might meet. He hoped

also that Christ would let him continue to serve her. His one secret

wish was to die on a cross as the “Lamb” died. But this seemed a

happiness so great that he hardly dared to pray for it, though he knew

that in Rome even the worst criminals were crucified. He thought that

surely he would be condemned to die under the teeth of wild beasts; and

this was his one sorrow. From childhood he had lived in impassable

forests, amid continual hunts, in which, thanks to his superhuman

strength, he was famous among the Lygians even before he had grown to

manhood. This occupation had become for him so agreeable that later,

when in Rome, and forced to live without hunting, he went to vivaria and

amphitheatres just to look at beasts known and unknown to him. The sight

of these always roused in the man an irresistible desire for struggle

and killing; so now he feared in his soul that on meeting them in the

amphitheatre he would be attacked by thoughts unworthy of a Christian,

whose duty it was to die piously and patiently. But in this he

committed himself to Christ, and found other and more agreeable thoughts

to comfort him. Hearing that the “Lamb” had declared war against the

powers of hell and evil spirits with which the Christian faith connected

all pagan divinities, he thought that in this war he might serve the

“Lamb” greatly, and serve better than others, for he could not help

believing that his soul was stronger than the souls of other martyrs.

Finally, he prayed whole days, rendered service to prisoners, helped

overseers, and comforted his queen, who complained at times that in her

short life she had not been able to do so many good deeds as the

renowned Tabitha of whom Peter the Apostle had told her. Even the

prison guards, who feared the terrible strength of this giant, since

neither bars nor chains could restrain it, came to love him at last for

his mildness. Amazed at his good temper, they asked more than once what

its cause was. He spoke with such firm certainty of the life waiting

after death for him, that they listened with surprise, seeing for the

first time that happiness might penetrate a dungeon which sunlight could

not reach. And when he urged them to believe in the “Lamb,” it occurred

to more than one of those people that his own service was the service of

a slave, his own life the life of an unfortunate; and he fell to

thinking over his evil fate, the only end to which was death.

 

But death brought new fear, and promised nothing beyond; while that

giant and that maiden, who was like a flower cast on the straw of the

prison, went toward it with delight, as toward the gates of happiness.

Chapter LXIV

ONE evening Scevinus, a Senator, visited Petronius and began a long

conversation, touching the grievous times in which they were living, and

also touching Cæsar. He spoke so openly that Petronius, though his

friend, began to be cautious. Scevinus complained that the world was

living madly and unjustly, that all must end in some catastrophe more

dreadful still than the burning of Rome. He said that even Augustians

were dissatisfied; that Fenius Rufus, second prefect of the pretorians,

endured with the greatest effort the vile orders of Tigellinus; and that

all Seneca’s relatives were driven to extremes by Cæsar’s conduct as

well toward his old master as toward Lucan. Finally, he began to hint

of the dissatisfaction of the people, and even of the pretorians, the

greater part of whom had been won by Fenius Rufus.

 

“Why dost thou say this?” inquired Petronius.

 

“Out of care for Cæsar,” said Scevinus. “I have a distant relative

among the pretorians, also Scevinus; through him I know what takes place

in the camp. Disaffection is growing there also; Caligula, knowest

thou, was mad too, and see what happened. Cassius Chærea appeared. That

was a dreadful deed, and surely there is no one among us to praise it;

still Chærea freed the world of a monster.”

 

“Is thy meaning as follows: ‘I do not praise Chærea, but he was a

perfect man, and would that the gods had given us as many such as

possible’?” inquired Petronius.

 

But Scevinus changed the conversation, and began all at once to praise

Piso, exalting his family, his nobility of mind, his attachment to his

wife, and, finally, his intellect, his calmness, and his wonderful gift

of winning people.

 

“Cæsar is childless,” said he, “and all see his successor in Piso.

Doubtless, too, every man would help him with whole soul to gain power.

Fenius Rufus loves him; the relatives of Annæus are devoted to him

altogether. Plautius Lateranus and Tullius Senecio would spring into

fire for him; as would Natalis, and Subrius Flavius, and Sulpicius

Asper, and Afranius Quinetianus, and even Vestinius.”

 

“From this last man not much will result to Piso,” replied Petronius.

“Vestinius is afraid of his own shadow.”

 

“Vestinius fears dreams and spirits,” answered Scevinus, “but he is a

practical man, whom people wish wisely to make consul. That in his soul

he is opposed to persecuting Christians, thou shouldst not take ill of

him, for it concerns thee too that this madness should cease.”

 

“Not me, but Vinicius,” answered Petronius. “Out of concern for

Vinicius, I should like to save a certain maiden; but I cannot, for I

have fallen out of favor with Ahenobarbus.”

 

“How is that? Dost thou not notice that Cæsar is approaching thee

again, and beginning to talk with thee? And I will tell thee why. He

is preparing again for Achæa, where he is to sing songs in Greek of his

own composition. He is burning for that journey; but also he trembles

at thought of the cynical genius of the Greeks. He imagines that either

the greatest triumph may meet him or the greatest failure. He needs

good counsel, and he knows that no one can give it better than thou.

This is why thou art returning to favor.”

 

“Lucan might take my place.”

 

“Bronzebeard hates Lucan, and in his soul has written down death for the

poet. He is merely seeking a pretext, for he seeks pretexts always.”

 

“By Castor!” said Petronius, “that may be. But I might have still

another way for a quick return to favor.”

 

“What?”

 

“To repeat to Bronzebeard what thou hast told me just now.”

 

“I have said nothing!” cried Scevinus, with alarm.

 

Petronius placed his hand upon the Senator’s shoulder. “Thou hast

called Cæsar a madman, thou hast foreseen the heirship of Piso, and hast

said, ‘Lucan understands that there is need to hasten.’ What wouldst

thou hasten, carissime?”

 

Scevinus grew pale, and for a moment each looked into the eyes of the

other.

 

“Thou wilt not repeat!”

 

“By the hips of Kypris, I will not! How well thou knowest me! No; I

will not repeat. I have heard nothing, and, moreover, I wish to hear

nothing. Dost understand? Life is too short to make any undertaking

worth the while. I beg thee only to visit Tigellinus to-day, and talk

with him as long as thou hast with me of whatever may please thee.”

 

“Why?”

 

“So that should Tigellinus ever say to me, ‘Scevinus was with thee,’ I

might answer, ‘He was with thee, too, that very day.’”

 

Scevinus, when he heard this, broke the ivory cane which he had in his

hand, and said,—“May the evil fall on this stick! I shall be with

Tigellinus to-day, and later at Nerva’s feast. Thou, too, wilt be

there? In every case till we meet in the amphitheatre, where the last

of the Christians will appear the day after tomorrow. Till we meet!”

 

“After tomorrow!” repeated Petronius, when alone. “There is no time to

lose. Ahenobarbus will need me really in Achæa; hence he may count with

me.”

 

And he determined to try the last means.

 

In fact, at Nerva’s feast Cæsar himself asked that Petronius recline

opposite, for he wished to speak with the arbiter about Achæa and the

cities in which he might appear with hopes of the greatest success. He

cared most for the Athenians, whom he feared. Other Augustians listened

to this conversation with attention, so as to seize crumbs of the

arbiter’s opinions, and give them out later on as their own.

 

“It seems to me that I have not lived up to this time,” said Nero, “and

that my birth will come only in Greece.”

 

“Thou wilt be born to new glory and immortality,” answered Petronius.

 

“I trust that this is true, and that Apollo will not seem jealous. If I

return in triumph, I will offer him such a hecatomb as no god has had so

far.”

 

Scevinus fell to repeating the lines of Horace:—

 

“Sic te diva potens Cypri, Sic fratres Helenæ, lucida sidera,

Ventorumque regat Pater-”

 

“The vessel is ready at Naples,” said Cæsar. “I should like to go even

tomorrow.”

 

At this Petronius rose, and, looking straight into Nero’s eyes, said,

 

“Permit me, O divinity, to celebrate a wedding-feast, to which I shall

invite thee before others.”

 

“A wedding-feast! What wedding-feast?” inquired Nero.

 

“That of Vinicius with thy hostage the daughter of the Lygian king. She

is in prison at present, it is true; but as a hostage she is not subject

to imprisonment, and, secondly, thou thyself hast permitted Vinicius to

marry her; and as thy sentences, like those of Zeus, are unchangeable,

thou wilt give command to free her from prison, and I will give her to

thy favorite.”

 

The cool blood and calm self-possession with which Petronius spoke

disturbed Nero, who was disturbed whenever any

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