Rufus hesitated for a moment. That there was an opportunity such as never might occur again, he saw; the chances were ten to one that if Subrius were to strike, he would not strike in vain. But then, could he hope to escape himself if the deed was done? The German body-guards were devoted to their master, and would infallibly avenge his death on his a.s.sa.s.sin, and, it could hardly be doubted, on himself.

[265] "Hush!" he whispered to his subordinate. "It is not the time; we shall have a better opportunity than this."

Subrius muttered a curse under his breath, but the habit of obedience was strong in him, and he held his hand.

A LAST CHANCE.

[266] SUBRIUS was on duty that afternoon in the camp, and his place in the Court, where the Prefect was still in attendance, was filled by another Tribune. No one who saw him going, with an imperturbable calm, through the numberless little details which had to be looked after by the Tribune on duty, would have imagined how much he had at stake. The fact was that he had hardened his heart to any fortune, while he was both by temper of mind and by deliberate conviction a Stoic and a fatalist. Still he could not help feeling what may be described rather as a vivid curiosity than an anxiety as to what the day might bring forth. The Greek freedwoman who was being examined that afternoon, whatever she knew of the conspiracy, whether it was little or much, anyhow knew his name. Would she keep the secret? It was scarcely likely. He had seen men, who had every motive of honour and affection to keep them silent, quailing under the threats of pain, and sacrificing everything in their desperate clinging to life; would this weak woman, who had no honourable traditions of birth and training to which she would be [267] bound, show herself braver and more faithful than soldiers and n.o.bles? Who could imagine it? And yet when he thought of that strong, resolute face he thought it not impossible.

And he was right. He was making his way to his quarters when he encountered the officer who had been occupying his place in the Court during the afternoon.

"Subrius," said his friend, "you have missed the strangest sight that ever man saw. Ah! and I wish that I had missed it too, for it was almost past bearing. A Greek freedwoman was brought before the Court-Epicharis was her name. It seems that she had been accused of conspiring against the Emperor some time ago, but that nothing could be proved against her then; now that all this has come out, she was to be examined again. One of the Secretaries read over the confessions of the prisoners who had been before the Court in the morning, and then Tigellinus said: 'You hear this. What have you to say?' 'Nothing,' she answered. Well, he went on asking questions. 'Had she ever heard anything about the affair? How could she account for all these confessions? She had declared that Proculus had invented his story; was it likely that all these witnesses, knights, Senators, and soldiers, had also invented theirs?' She went on answering, 'I know nothing about it,' or was silent. Before long, Tigellinus broke out, 'You have lost your memory, [268] woman, it seems; well, we have charms for bringing it back.' At the same time he made a sign to a slave that stood by and the man uncovered the instruments of torture. I a.s.sure you that the girl-she was only a girl-did not so much as flinch or start. Well, they put her on the rack, and the executioner gave it a turn. I a.s.sure you it makes me almost sick when I think of it. At the second turn the woman said, 'I have something to say.' 'Ah, madam!' cried Tigellinus, 'I thought we should find your tongue for you. Loose her!' The men took her off the rack, and set her in a chair; she was quite unable to stand. 'Caesar,' she said, 'since you are resolved to force the truth from me, you shall have it. I have conspired against your life, and had I been a man, and had had the opportunities which others have had, I had done more; I would not only have plotted, but would have struck. Would you know why? Because you are a murderer. You slew your wife Octavia because she was ten thousand times too good for you. It is she whom I would have avenged. The G.o.ds have willed it otherwise; they have a.s.signed the task to other hands. You may kill me as you will. I do not care to live. But do not flatter yourself that the Furies of your mother, your brother, your wife, will suffer you to rest. They will find some sword to reach your heart, though this has been broken.' By Mars! Subrius, the woman looked like a Fury herself as she said this. She had started [269] up from her chair, though how she could stand I cannot imagine, and poured out her words as if she were inspired. The Emperor seemed struck dumb, but Tigellinus cried, 'Gag her; cut out her tongue!' Before they could touch her, she said again, 'Would you know my a.s.sociates?' Tigellinus made a sign that they were to leave her alone. She was so frantic, he thought, that she might let out something almost without knowing it. 'I will tell you; my a.s.sociates are all brave soldiers, all good citizens, all who love their country. To-morrow, Caesar, if not to-day, these will be on my side, and they will be too strong for you, for all your legions. Mark my words: before five years are past, you will desire and yet be afraid to die, and will hardly find a friend to press home the last blow!'"

"Brave woman!" said Subrius, "and what then?"

"After that," replied the other, "she said nothing more. Not a single word could they wring out of her lips, though they tortured her in a way that, as I said, made me sick to see. At last the physician told them that unless they stopped they would kill her. So she was carried off, to be brought back again to-morrow, I understood."

"Great Jupiter! how she shames us all," said Subrius to himself, when he had parted from his brother officer. "To think of the shameful exhibition that those freeborn men made yesterday, and then see what this woman has done! And what of [270] myself? Would she-had she been in my place-hold her hand? And yet I was bound to obey orders. The G.o.ds grant I may find Rufus in a bolder mood at last!"

This bolder mood unhappily was what not even the necessity of his desperate position could create in the Prefect. Subrius found him still unwilling to act, clinging frantically to the hope that his share in the conspiracy might yet pa.s.s undiscovered. In vain did Subrius ply him with arguments and remonstrances.

"It is sheer madness," he said, after going again and again over the familiar ground; "nothing but madness, to hope that you will not be named by some one of the condemned. It is a marvel that it has not been done already. But if you think that they will all endure to see you sitting as their judge, cross-examining, threatening, when by a word they might bring you down to stand at their side, you are simply fooling yourself. Why should they spare you?"

"If any one does name me, I can deny it," said Rufus.

"Deny it!" cried the Tribune; "what good will that do you? Nero is so panic-stricken that to be named to him is to be condemned. And what of Tigellinus? Don't you know that he has a protege of his own for whom he covets your place?"

"It is my only chance," murmured the Prefect. "It is too late for anything else."

[271] "Possibly," returned Subrius gloomily; "we have lost too many chances, and this is a fault which Fortune never forgives. But it is not too late to die; that is the only thing, I take it, that our folly has left us free to do. Let us cast lots who shall play the executioner. We shall do it at least in a more seemly fashion than Nero's hangsman."

At this moment there was a tap at the door. The Prefect turned pale; any moment, he knew in his heart of hearts, might bring with it his arrest. Subrius put his hand upon his sword-hilt, ready to sell his life as clearly as he could.

The newcomer was another Tribune of the Praetorians, Silva.n.u.s by name.

"Well, Silva.n.u.s, what news?" asked Rufus.

"I will tell you," replied the other, "and you must judge what is to be done. Yesterday Caesar sent for me, after he had finished his examination of the prisoners. Tigellinus was with him, and Poppaea; Antonius Natalis was there, with handcuffs on his hands, and a soldier on each side of him. 'Repeat, Natalis,' said Caesar, 'what you have told us about Seneca.' At that Natalis said: 'I went lately to see Seneca when he was sick. Piso sent me. I was to complain of Seneca's having always denied himself to him of late. They were old friends; he had much to say to Seneca; it would be greatly to their mutual profit if he were allowed an opportunity of saying it. I took this message to Seneca,' Natalis went on. 'His answer [272] was that he did not agree with Piso, but thought, on the contrary, that it would not be to the interest of either of them that they should have much talk. He quite saw, however, that he and Piso must stand and fall together.' When Natalis had finished, Caesar said to me, 'You hear, Silva.n.u.s, the evidence of Natalis.' 'Yes, Sire,' I said, 'I hear.' 'It shows plainly that there was an understanding between them,' the Emperor went on. 'Is it not so?' 'Doubtless, Sire,' I said, for one does not contradict an Emperor, you know. 'Well,' he went on, 'go to Seneca, repeat that evidence to him,-to make sure that you have it right, you had better put it into writing,-and ask him how he can explain it. Of course you will take a guard with you!' Well, I went. Seneca, who had just come back from Bai?, was at his house, between the Anio and the Mons Sacer, and when I got there was at dinner with his wife and two friends. I read Natalis' evidence to him. He said: 'It is quite true that Natalis came to me from Piso with a complaint that I denied myself to him. I said that I really was not well enough to see any but a very few friends; indeed, the physicians prescribe absolute rest; of course, if the Emperor wants me, I must come, but I cannot be expected to sacrifice my life for any one else. As to what I am reported to have said about Piso and myself standing and falling together, I don't understand it. I may have given the common message, "If Piso is well, I [273] am well," but I never went beyond it. (Footnote: This was a customary compliment in a letter, "Si vales ego bene valeo," and it had been wrested into language that seemed to signify complicity in some dangerous scheme.") That is all I have to say,' he went on, 'and if Caesar does not know by this time that I am in the habit of speaking the truth, nothing that I can say will persuade him.' Well, I went back; when I reached the palace, Nero was at dinner with Tigellinus and Poppaea. I repeated Seneca's words exactly. I had taken the precaution, I should say, of writing them down. The Emperor said, 'Did the old man say anything about killing himself?' 'Nothing,' I said. We heard him mutter to himself, 'The old dotard is very slow to take a hint. What could be plainer? You are sure,' he said, turning to me again, 'you saw no signs of anything of the kind?' 'Nothing,' I answered; 'he was as calm and quiet as ever I saw a man in my life.' 'Well,' said Caesar, 'then we must speak more plainly. Go back and tell him that he has three hours to live, and no more.' "

"What then?" said the Prefect. "What did you do?"

"Instead of going back, I came to you," replied Silva.n.u.s.

"And why?" asked the Prefect.

"Do you ask me why?" cried Silva.n.u.s. "Surely you must know. Am I to go or am I not to go? Say the word. I am ready to obey."

[274] At this point Subrius broke in. "Silva.n.u.s is right. He sees that this is our last chance. Piso is dead, Latera.n.u.s is dead. Seneca is the only man left whom we can put up with any hope against the tyrant. For Heaven's sake, away with this frantic folly of thinking that you can escape! Speak the word, Faenius Rufus, and I will go with Silva.n.u.s here to Seneca's house. We will take him, whether he will or not-for he is more likely to refuse than to consent-and bring him into the camp, and salute him as Emperor."

"No! No!" cried the Prefect, wringing his hands in an agony of perplexity. "It is hopeless. It must fail!"

"Anyhow," retorted the Tribune, "it is not so absolutely hopeless as your plan. We have lost better chances than this; but this has, at least, the merit of being our last."

"I cannot do it," said Rufus after a pause. "Carry out your orders, Silva.n.u.s; there is nothing else to do."

"So be it, then," said Subrius. "you have sealed our fate and your own. I will go with you, Silva.n.u.s. I would fain see how a philosopher can die; it will not be long before we shall need the lesson."

THE DEATH OF A PHILOSPHER.

[275] SCARCELY a word pa.s.sed between the two Tribunes as they traversed the distance, some four miles or so, that lay between the camp and Seneca's villa. Silva.n.u.s was heartily ashamed of his errand, and Subrius, who bitterly felt his own helplessness, could only pity him, and would not say a word that might sound like a reproach. Under these circ.u.mstances to be silent was the only course. Arrived at the villa, Silva.n.u.s called a Centurion, took him apart, and gave him his instructions.

"I shall not go in," he said to his companion. "It would be past all bearing."

"You will not hinder my entering?" asked Subrius.

"Certainly not, if it pleases you to go."

Silva.n.u.s gave the necessary orders to the Centurion, and the two were ushered by a slave into the apartment where Seneca was sitting with his wife and his friends.

The Centurion stepped forward and saluted. "Lucius Annacus Seneca," he said, "Caesar, having come to the conclusion that it is not to the interests of the State that you should live any longer, graciously, of [276] his clemency, permits you to choose for yourself the manner of your death."

The unhappy wife of the doomed man uttered a loud shriek, and fell back half fainting in her chair; his two guests started up from their seats with pale and terror-stricken faces. Seneca remained absolutely calm and unmoved.

"This," he said with a smile, "is not the usual fee that a pupil pays to his teacher, (Footnote: It will be remembered that Seneca had been Nero's tutor.) but it may not be the less acceptable, for that. Sir," he went on, turning with a courteous gesture to the Tribune, "is our friend, if I may call him so, who has just brought me this gift, under your command?"

"The G.o.ds forbid!" cried Subrius eagerly. "I had never come on such an errand. Yet I knew that it was to be executed. Forgive me if I intrude unseasonably."

"You need scarcely ask my pardon," replied the philosopher. "Condemned men are seldom troubled by a too great abundance of visitors and friends. How much time do you allow me, friend?" he asked, turning to the Centurion.

The man hesitated. "Would two hours suffice?" he asked. "I would fain return to Caesar before he sleeps."

"Jupiter forbid," said Seneca, "that I should keep Caesar from his needful rest! That would be ill-done of his old tutor. And surely two hours will [277] suffice to rid an old man (Footnote: Seneca, born a few years before the Christian Era, must have been at least seventy at this time.) of what little life remains to him. But the time is not long, and I must not waste it. Let me see then what has to be done. First, then, my will."

The Centurion interposed. "It is not permitted to any one so circ.u.mstanced to change his will."

"Why so?"

"Caesar grants validity to the wills of those whom he suffers thus to execute justice on themselves, but his clemency must not be abused, possibly to his own injury, or the injury of loyal persons."

"You mean that I might strike out a legacy that I had left to Caesar himself, or to Tigellinus. Nay, I was but thinking to make my friends here a little present in remembrance of to-day. And to you, sir," he added, addressing the Centurion, "I would gladly have offered some little token of my regard. The bringers of good news should not miss their reward. But if it is otherwise ordered, we must obey. After all, the best thing that I have to leave to my friends is the picture of my life. Is it permitted to me to spend the time that remains in the company of my wife and friends? You can easily make sure of my not escaping."

The Centurion intimated that there would be no objection to this, saluted, and withdrew.

"You will stay with me, sir?" he said to Subrius; [278] "though indeed it is presumption in a civilian to pretend to show a soldier how to die. Nay," he added, for the Praetorian, inexpressibly touched by the cheerful composure with which the old man met his fate, could hardly keep down his emotion, "Nay, but we look to you, who have faced death so often, to help us to be calm."

He turned to his two friends, who were weeping unrestrainedly. "Surely I have been the dullest of masters if I have not taught you better than this. By all the G.o.ds! if you would not disgrace me, command yourselves better. Philosophers forsooth! and the moment your philosophy is wanted, it breaks down. Life is brief, and death is sure. These are the very commonplaces of wisdom, and yet one would think that you had never heard them. And what is there that surprises you? That an old man should die, and an old man whom Nero hates? The only marvel is that I have been suffered to live so long. He has murdered his brother, his mother, his wife; it was only fitting that he should murder his tutor. All that I taught him has perished; it is time for the teacher to follow the way of his precepts."

The philosopher then turned to his wife Paulina. He changed his tone to one of tenderness.

"Dearest," he said, as he clasped her in his arms, "we must part. That is a sorrow which all husbands and wives must face; and, after all, the tyrant has not antic.i.p.ated fate by many years. I will not ask you [279] not to grieve for me; that would be against nature; but it is also against nature to grieve without ceasing. The years that have been given us have not, I trust, been ill-spent; to recollect them is a solace of which no one can rob you."

"Nay," cried Paulina, "I shall need no solace, for there shall be no parting. Nero bids you die, but he does not forbid me to die with you."

"Well said," answered Seneca. "That is worthy of my own true wife. It was only right to show you that there might yet be happiness in life for you, but if you prefer the glory of death I must not hinder you. And yet," he added with a smile, "of any one but you I should be inclined to be jealous. You put me into the shade. I have no choice between living and dying. I do but prefer one death to another; but you prefer it to life."

To open the artery in one of the arms was reckoned the easiest and least painful way of inflicting death. Husband and wife held out their arms together, and the former administered the stroke. For some reason it failed of its effect. Possibly in the case of the wife the old man's strength did not suffice to make the wound sufficiently deep. Anyhow she survived. It was to the interest of some of those who surrounded her that she should live. Accordingly the Centurion who was in waiting outside was informed of what had happened, and despatched a mounted messenger to Nero with an account of [280] what had been done and a request for instructions. The man returned in a very short time with strict injunctions that the wife must not be permitted to die. The wound was bound up, and she survived, though as long as she lived the bloodless pallor of her face showed how near she had been to death.

With Seneca himself the process of dying was long and painful. He could not bleed to death, it seems, for, what with the weakness of old age, and the excessive spareness of his diet, there was but little blood in his body. To no purpose did he sever the veins in his legs. Painful convulsions followed, but death still seemed remote.

His fort.i.tude remained unshaken. "If I cannot die," he said to his friends, "at least let me make use of life. Send me my secretaries."

The secretaries came, and he dictated to them, in a voice that was surprisingly firm and distinct, his last thoughts about life and death. Never had his eloquence been more clear and forcible. (Footnote: Unhappily this last discourse has not been preserved. Tacitus says that it had been published, and that, because presumably it was so well known, he did not venture to put it into his own words. Literary etiquette, apparently, prevented the historian from quoting it. It is naturally a case in which I have not the courage to invent.) He had just finished when a newcomer was announced. This was the physician Ann?us Statius, a long-tried and faithful friend, who had been Seneca's medical attendant for many years. The philosopher's [281] chamberlain had sent for him as soon as he was aware of the errand on which the soldiers had come.

"You are come in good time, Statius," said Seneca. "Your art has so fortified me against death that when I want to depart I cannot. Have you the draught ready?"

"Yes, it is ready," replied the physician. "I brought the hemlock ready pounded, and Stilicho has mixed it."

He clapped his hands, and a slave brought in the cup.

"Ah!" said the old man with a smile, as he took and drained it, "I am after all to have the crowning honour of a philosopher's life, and die as Socrates died."

But even this was not to be. The poison, which would have sent a fatal chill through a frame warm with vigorous life, seemed powerless to affect one so cold and feeble.

"How is this, my friend?" said Seneca after a while. "My time is more than past, and our good friend the Centurion will be wanting to finish the work himself. What say you?"

"I half feared it," replied the physician. "There is no life in you for the poison to lay hold of."

"What do you advise then?"

"A hot bath might hasten matters," replied the man of science. The hot bath was tried, but the old man grew cheerful and even playful.

"The feast is ended, and though some of the [282] dishes have been tasteless and ill-cooked, it has not been ill-furnished on the whole. Now it is time for the libation. To Jupiter!-not the 'Preserver'; that he is for those only who seek to live,-let me rather say ' Liberator,' for he is indeed about to set me free." As he spoke he scooped up some of the water in the hollow of his hand, and threw it on the slaves that were in attendance. A few minutes later he spoke again.

"There must be an end of this. Take me into the hot chamber. That will finish it. Is it not so, Statius?" he said, looking to the physician.

"Doubtless," replied Statius; "but it will be a painful process."

"Well," said the philosopher, "that is only to be expected. For what says Cicero? 'The departure of the soul from the body does not happen without pain.' "

A few minutes afterwards he had ceased to live.

THE FATE OF SUBRIUS.

[283] THE physician, whose house was in the immediate neighbourhood, offered Subrius hospitality for the night. The Tribune, unwilling to compromise any one by his presence, declined it.

"There are reasons," he said, "why I should not come under your roof; don't ask me what they are, for it is better that you should not know. Besides, it is necessary for me to get back to Rome as soon as may be."

Subrius had given up all hope for himself. Resistance and escape were equally out of the question. Nor could he hope to do anything for his confederates. Most of them were already in the hands of the authorities; the others would be infallibly named by one or other of the informers. The only one whom he saw a chance of saving was Pudens. Pudens was unknown to most of the conspirators,-a simple soldier on leave who might, it was possible, be sheltered by his obscurity. The Tribune was inclined to reproach himself for having involved the young man, whose frank and engaging character had greatly attracted him, in an undertaking which he now saw had been doomed to failure from the first.

[284] It was just possible that the mischief might be undone. It still wanted some three or four hours of midnight. Whatever was to be done must be done before morning, for beyond that time the final blow could hardly be delayed. If Pudens could be found that night, he might possibly escape.

The Tribune accordingly proceeded straight to the place where the young officer was still employed in the superintendence of public works before described. Late as it was when he arrived, Pudens was still busy. It was, in fact, the last day of his engagement, and he was busy completing his final report and making up his accounts, for he had latterly been intrusted with the payment of the workmen. He was not alone, for the Christian freedman, whom for some time he had employed as his a.s.sistant, was with him, and was helping him to wind up the affairs of his office. Curiously enough, no tidings of the exciting events which had been going on in Rome had reached him.

As briefly as possible Subrius put his young friend in possession of the state of the case. "All is lost!" he said. "By whose fault this has come about it does not profit to inquire. For the present the fact is enough. All but a few of our friends are already in prison; the rest will soon be there. But there is a chance for you. You were a stranger to most of those who were concerned in the affair. Neither Scaevinus nor Natalis, who are the princ.i.p.al in- [285] formers, knew you by name. It is the greatest good luck that your engagement here has come to an end. As it is, your going away need excite no suspicion. My advice to you is this: Go to-morrow morning with your report and your accounts to your chief; but mind, don't go a moment before the usual time. Keep as cool as you can. If he says anything of what has happened, you, of course, will know nothing about it. Afterwards bid good by to any acquaintance that you may have. Mind, whatever you do, be leisurely and calm. Let there be nothing like hurry, for hurry is suspicious. After that I must leave everything to your own judgment and ingenuity. You have, I fancy from what you told me, a certain talent for disguising yourself. You will want it. Make your way, I should say, to the armies in the East. The particular spot that will be safest you must judge hereafter. The G.o.ds preserve you!"

"And you!" cried the young man. "Will not you come with me?"

"Nay, my friend," replied Subrius, "I should spoil it all, destroy your chance, and not profit myself."

"But Pomponia and Claudia!" said Pudens, after a pause. "How can I leave them when I might be of some help?"

"You can do nothing," answered Subrius. "If they are to be helped it cannot be by you. I don't even know where they are. Latera.n.u.s, as I told you, was [286] arrested and executed. They were in his house. I did not hear of their being taken at the same time. Anyhow it will not profit them for you to thrust your head into the lion's mouth."

At this point the freedman interrupted the conversation.

"I think, sir," he said, "that I may be of some use, both to the n.o.ble ladies, if they are not already removed from Latera.n.u.s' house, and to my friend here, if I may be permitted so to speak of him. As for him, I do not think that it would be advisable for him to put the plan which you suggest into execution at once. That he should make his way some time to the army in the East, I agree; but, I should say, not now. Now, it is certain, all the roads, all the ports, are watched. A little time hence this vigilance will be relaxed; then the attempt can be made with more chance of success."

"What then do you suggest?" asked Subrius.

"We of the faith," answered the freedman, "have a hiding-place, where we keep our most precious things,-our books, our sacred vessels, and, in case of need, the persons of those whom we desire to conceal from the rage of our enemies. More I am not at liberty to say, for I am bound to secrecy; but there is a hope, I a.s.sure you, and I will certainly do my best to fulfil it."

"What say you, Pudens?" said the Tribune, turning to the young man.

[287] It will readily be believed that Pudens did not hesitate for a moment. The idea of making his own escape, and leaving the two women to their fate, had been extremely distasteful to him. Though he had been compelled to confess to himself that he could give them little or no help, he still felt a desire, perhaps an unreasonable desire, to be near them, even, if it was so to be, to share their fate. He caught eagerly at the freedman's proposal.

"I will stay," he said, "and take my chance here."

"Then," cried Subrius, "if that is settled, I will go." He took an affectionate farewell of his friend, and departed.

Some time had been occupied in the discussion, more than would be supposed from the brief summary that has here been given of it. It was now nearly dawn, and broad daylight before the camp was reached.

Here, somewhat, perhaps, to his surprise, the Tribune found everything quiet. The sentinel at the gate saluted as usual. His soldier servant, who had been waiting for him, showed him all the customary respect, and roused him, after two or three hours of slumber, with the message that the Prefect wished to have his attendance at the Emperor's Court.

He obeyed the summons, impressed with the profound conviction that that day was to see the end of the desperate game which the Prefect had been playing.

[288] The first intelligence that he received on reaching the Court was that Epicharis was beyond the reach of her enemies. While on her way to the Court, where she was to be again subjected to the torture, she had contrived to put an end to her life.