Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

“Canst thou expect mongrels to appreciate poetry?”

“But thou too hast noticed that they have not thanked me as I deserve.”

“Because thou hast chosen a bad moment.”

“How?”

“When men’s brains are filled with the odor of blood, they cannot listen

attentively.”

“Ah, those Christians!” replied Nero, clenching his fists. “They burned

Rome, and injure me now in addition. What new punishment shall I invent

for them?”

Petronius saw that he had taken the wrong road, that his words had

produced an effect the very opposite of what he intended; so, to turn

Cæsar’s mind in another direction, he bent toward him and whispered,—

“Thy song is marvellous, but I will make one remark: in the fourth line

of the third strophe the metre leaves something to be desired.”

Nero, blushing with shame, as if caught in a disgraceful deed, had fear

in his look, and answered in a whisper also,—

“Thou seest everything. I know. I will re-write that. But no one else

noticed it, I think. And do thou, for the love of the gods, mention it

to no one,—if life is dear to thee.”

To this Petronius answered, as if in an outburst of vexation and anger,

“Condemn me to death, O divinity, if I deceive thee; but thou wilt not

terrify me, for the gods know best of all if I fear death.”

And while speaking he looked straight into Cæsar’s eyes, who answered

after a while,—

“Be not angry; thou knowest that I love thee.”

“A bad sign!” thought Petronius.

“I wanted to invite thee to-day to a feast,” continued Nero, “but I

prefer to shut myself in and polish that cursed line in the third

strophe. Besides thee Seneca may have noticed it, and perhaps Secundus

Carinas did; but I will rid myself of them quickly.”

Then he summoned Seneca, and declared that with Acratus and Secundus

Carinas, he sent him to the Italian and all other provinces for money,

which he commanded him to obtain from cities, villages, famous temples,

—in a word, from every place where it was possible to find money, or

from which they could force it. But Seneca, who saw that Cæsar was

confiding to him a work of plunder, sacrilege, and robbery, refused

straightway.

“I must go to the country, lord,” said he, “and await death, for I am

old and my nerves are sick.”

Seneca’s Iberian nerves were stronger than Chilos; they were not sick,

perhaps, but in general his health was bad, for he seemed like a shadow,

and recently his hair had grown white altogether.

Nero, too, when he looked at him, thought that he would not have to wait

long for the man’s death, and answered,—

“I will not expose thee to a journey if thou art ill, but through

affection I wish to keep thee near me. Instead of going to the country,

then, thou wilt stay in thy own house, and not leave it.”

Then he laughed, and said, “If I send Acratus and Carinas by themselves,

it will be like sending wolves for sheep. Whom shall I set above them?”

“Me, lord,” said Domitius Afer.

“No! I have no wish to draw on Rome the wrath of Mercury, whom ye would

put to shame with your villainy. I need some stoic like Seneca, or like

my new friend, the philosopher Chilo.”

Then he looked around, and asked,—

“But what has happened to Chilo?”

Chilo, who had recovered in the open air and returned to the

amphitheatre for Cæsar’s song, pushed up, and said,—

“I am here, O Radiant Offspring of the sun and moon. I was ill, but thy

song has restored me.”

“I will send thee to Achæa,” said Nero. “Thou must know to a copper how

much there is in each temple there.”

“Do so, O Zeus, and the gods will give thee such tribute as they have

never given any one.”

“I would, but I do not like to prevent thee from seeing the games.”

“Baal!” said Chilo.

The Augustians, delighted that Cæsar had regained humor, fell to

laughing, and exclaimed,—

“No, lord, deprive not this valiant Greek of a sight of the games.”

“But preserve me, O lord, from the sight of these noisy geese of the

Capitol, whose brains put together would not fill a nutshell,” retorted

Chilo. “O first-born of Apollo, I am writing a Greek hymn in thy honor,

and I wish to spend a few days in the temple of the Muses to implore

inspiration.”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Nero. “It is thy wish to escape future games.

Nothing will come of that!”

“I swear to thee, lord, that I am writing a hymn.”

“Then thou wilt write it at night. Beg inspiration of Diana, who, by

the way, is a sister of Apollo.”

Chilo dropped his head and looked with malice on those present, who

began to laugh again. Cæsar, turning to Senecio and Suilius Nerulinus,

said,—

“Imagine, of the Christians appointed for to-day we have been able to

finish hardly half!”

At this old Aquilus Regulus, who had great knowledge of everything

touching the amphitheatre, thought a while, and said,—

“Spectacles in which people appear sine armis et sine arte last almost

as long and are less entertaining.”

“I will command to give them weapons,” answered Nero.

But the superstitious Vestinius was roused from meditation at once, and

asked in a mysterious voice,—

“Have ye noticed that when dying they see something? They look up, and

die as it were without pain. I am sure that they see something.”

He raised his eyes then to the opening of the amphitheatre, over which

night had begun to extend its velarium dotted with stars. But others

answered with laughter and jesting suppositions as to what the

Christians could see at the moment of death. Meanwhile Cæsar gave a

signal to the slave torch-bearers, and left the Circus; after him

followed vestals, senators, dignitaries, and Augustians.

The night was clear and warm. Before the Circus were moving throngs of

people, curious to witness the departure of Cæsar; but in some way they

were gloomy and silent. Here and there applause was heard, but it

ceased quickly. From the spoliarium creaking carts bore away the bloody

remnants of Christians.

Petronius and Vinicius passed over their road in silence. Only when

near his villa did Petronius inquire,—

“Hast thou thought of what I told thee?” “I have,” answered Vinicius.

“Dost believe that for me too this is a question of the highest

importance? I must liberate her in spite of Cæsar and Tigellinus. This

is a kind of battle in which I have undertaken to conquer, a kind of

play in which I wish to win, even at the cost of my life. This day has

confirmed me still more in my plan.”

“May Christ reward thee.”

“Thou wilt see.”

Thus conversing, they stopped at the door of the villa and descended

from the litter. At that moment a dark figure approached them, and

asked,—

“Is the noble Vinicius here?”

“He is,” answered the tribune. “What is thy wish?”

“I am Nazarius, the son of Miriam. I come from the prison, and bring

tidings of Lygia.”

Vinicius placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and looked into his

eyes by the torchlight, without power to speak a word, but Nazarius

divined the question which was dying on his lips, and replied,—

“She is living yet. Ursus sent me to say that she prays in her fever,

and repeats thy name.”

“Praise be to Christ, who has power to restore her to me,” said

Vinicius. He conducted Nazarius to the library, and after a while

Petronius came in to hear their conversation.

“Sickness saved her from shame, for executioners are timid,” said the

youth. “Ursus and Glaucus the physician watch over her night and day.”

“Are the guards the same?”

“They are, and she is in their chamber. All the prisoners in the lower

dungeon died of fever, or were stifled from foul air.”

“Who art thou?” inquired Petronins.

“The noble Vinicius knows me. I am the son of that widow with whom

Lygia lodged.”

“And a Christian?”

The youth looked with inquiring glance at Vinicius, but, seeing him in

prayer, he raised his head, and answered,—

“I am.”

“How canst thou enter the prison freely?”

“I hired myself to carry out corpses; I did so to assist my brethren and

bring them news from the city.”

Petronius looked more attentively at the comely face of the youth, his

blue eyes, and dark, abundant hair.

“From what country art thou, youth?” asked he.

“I am a Galilean, lord.”

“Wouldst thou like to see Lygia free?”

The youth raised his eyes. “Yes, even had I to die afterwards.”

Then Vinicius ceased to pray, and said,—

“Tell the guards to place her in a coffin as if she were dead. Thou

wilt find assistants to bear her out in the night with thee. Near the

‘Putrid Pits’ will be people with a litter waiting for you; to them ye

will give the coffin. Promise the guards from me as much gold as each

can carry in his mantle.”

While speaking, his face lost its usual torpor, and in him was roused

the soldier to whom hope had restored his former energy.

Nazarius was flushed with delight, and, raising his hands, he exclaimed,

“May Christ give her health, for she will be free.”

“Dost thou think that the guards will consent?” inquired Petronius.

“They, lord? Yes, if they know that punishment and torture will not

touch them.”

“The guards would consent to her flight; all the more will they let us

bear her out as a corpse,” said Vinicius.

“There is a man, it is true,” said Nazarius, “who burns with red-hot

iron to see if the bodies which we carry out are dead. But he will take

even a few sestertia not to touch the face of the dead with iron. For

one aureus he will touch the coffin, not the body.”

“Tell him that he will get a cap full of aurei,” said Petronius. “But

canst thou find reliable assistants?”

“I can find men who would sell their own wives and children for money.”

“Where wilt thou find them?”

“In the prison itself or in the city. Once the guards are paid, they

will admit whomever I like.”

“In that case take me as a hired servant,” said Vinicius.

But Petronius opposed this most earnestly. “The pretorians might

recognize thee even in disguise, and all would be lost. Go neither to

the prison nor the ‘Putrid Pits.’ All, including Cæsar and Tigellinus,

should be convinced that she died; otherwise they will order immediate

pursuit. We can lull suspicion only in this way: When she is taken to

the Alban Hills or farther, to Sicily, we shall be in Rome. A week or

two later thou wilt fall ill, and summon Nero’s physician; he will tell

thee to go to the mountains. Thou and she will meet, and afterward—”

Here he thought a while; then, waving his hand, he said,—

“Other times may come.”

“May Christ have mercy on her,” said Vinicius. “Thou art speaking of

Sicily, while she is sick and may die.”

“Let us keep her nearer Rome at first. The air alone will restore her,

if only we snatch her from the dungeon. Hast thou no manager in the

mountains