“Italian fields of death, the bloodstained wave
That swept Sicilian shores, and that dark day
That reddened Actium’s rocks, have wrought such woe,
Philippi’s self seems guiltless by compare.”
(Footnote: A free translation of the last two lines of C. VIII. Hesperi? clades et flebilis unda Pachyni, Et Mutina, et Leucas puros fecere Philippos.) It was followed by a round of genuine, even enthusiastic applause. When the applause had subsided there was an interval of silence that was scarcely less complimentary to the poet. This was broken at last by a remark from Licinius, a young soldier who had lately been serving against the Parthians under the great Corbulo, for many years the indefatigable and invincible guardian of the Eastern frontier of the Empire.
“Lucan,” he said, “would you object to repeat a [16] few lines which occurred in your description of the sacrifices on either side before the beginning of the battle? We heard how all the omens were manifestly unfavourable to Pompey, and then there followed something that struck me very much about the prayers and vows of C?sar.”
“I know what you mean,” replied the poet; “I will repeat them with pleasure. They run thus:�
” ‘But what dark thrones, what Furies of the pit,
C?sar, didst thou invoke? The wicked hand
That waged with pitiless sword such impious war
Not to the heavens was lifted, but to Gods
That rule the nether world and Powers that veil
Their maddening presence in Eternal night.’ “
“Exactly so,” said Licinius. “Those were the lines I meant. But will you recite this in public? How will Nero, who, after all, is the heir of C?sar, and enjoys the harvests reaped at Mutina, and Actium, and Philippi, how will Nero relish such language?”
“He is not likely to hear it. In fact, he has forbidden me to recite. He does not like rivals,” he added with an air of indescribable scorn.
“Indeed,” said the young soldier; “then you have seen reason to change your opinions. I remember having the great pleasure of hearing you read your first book. I was just about to start to join my legion. It must have been about two years ago. I can’t exactly recollect the lines, but you mentioned, [17] I remember, Munda, and Mutina, and Actium, and then went on:�
” ‘Yet great the debt our Roman fortunes owe
To civil strife, if this its end, to make
Great Nero lord of men… .’ “
The other guests grew hot and cold at the more than military frankness with which their companion taxed their host with inconsistency. The inconsistency was notorious enough; but now that the poet had abandoned his flatteries and definitely ranged himself with the opposition, what need to recall it?
Lucan could not restrain the blush that rose to his cheek, but he was ready with his answer.
“The Nero of to-day is not the Nero of three years ago, for it was then that I wrote those lines.”
“Yet even then,” whispered another of the guests to his neighbour, “he had murdered his brother and his mother.”
A somewhat awkward silence followed. Subrius, a tribune of the Pr?torians, broke it by addressing himself to Licinius.
“Licinius,” he cried, “tell our friends what you were describing to me the other day.”
“You mean,” said Licinius, “the ceremony of Tiridates’ submission?”
“Exactly,” replied Subrius.
“Well,” resumed the other, “it was certainly a sight that was well worth seeing. A more magnifi- [18] cent army than the Parthian’s never was. How the King could have given in without fighting I cannot imagine, except that Corbulo fairly frightened him. I could hardly have believed that there were so many horse-soldiers in the world. But there they were, squadron after squadron, lancers, and archers, and swordsmen, each tribe with its own device, a serpent, or an eagle, or a star, or the crescent moon, till the eye could hardly reach to the last of them. The legions were ranged on the three sides of a hollow square, with a platform in the centre, and on the platform an image of the Emperor, seated on a throne of gold.”
“A truly Egyptian deity!” muttered the poet to himself.
“King Tiridates,” the soldier went on, “after sacrificing, came up, and kneeling on one knee, laid his crown at the feet of the statue.”
“Noble sight again!” whispered Lucan to his neighbour. “A man bowing down before a beast.”
“And Corbulo?” asked one of the guests, Lateranus by name, who had not hitherto spoken. “How did he bear himself on this occasion?”
“As modestly as the humblest centurion in the army,” replied Licinius.
“Yes, it was a glorious triumph for Rome,” said Subrius the Pr?torian; “but�”
He paused, and looked with a meaning glance at Lateranus.
[19] Lateranus, who was sitting by the side of Lucan (indeed, it was to him that the poet had whispered his irreverent comments on the ceremony by the Euphrates), rose from his seat. The new speaker was a striking figure, if only on account of his huge stature and strength. But he had other claims to distinction; after a foolish and profligate youth, he had begun to take life seriously.
“Will you excuse me?” he said to the host, and walking to the door opened it, examined the passage hat led to it, locked another door at the further end, and then returned to his place.
“Walls have ears,” he said, “but these, as far as I can judge, are deaf. We can all keep a secret, my friends?” he went on, looking round at the company.
“To the death, if need be,” cried Lucan.
The four other guests murmured assent.
“We may very likely be called upon to make good our words. If any one is of a doubtful mind, let him draw back in time.”
“Go on; we are all resolved,” was the unanimous answer of the company.
Did there seem nothing strange to you when our friend Licinius told us of the Parthian king laying his crown at the feet of Nero’s statue? What has Nero done that he should receive such gifts? Our armies defend with their bodies the frontiers of Euphrates and the Rhine? They toil through Scythian snows and African sands. And for what? [20] Who reaps the rewards of their valour and their toil? Why, this harp-player, this buffoon, who sets the trivial crowns which reward the victories of the stage above all the glories of Rome. And why? Because, forsooth, he is the grandson of Julia the adulteress! I acknowledge the greatness of Julius, of Augustus, even of Tiberius. It was not unworthy of Romans, if the gods denied them liberty, to be ruled by such men. But Caius the madman, and Claudius the pedant,�did some doubtful drops of Imperial blood entitle them to be masters of the human race? And Nero, murderer of his brother, his mother, his wife, how much longer is he going to pollute with riot and bloodshed the holy places of Rome? If a Brutus could be found to strike down the great dictator, will no one dare to inflict the vengeance of gods and men on this profligate boy?”
“The man and the sword will not be wanting when the proper time shall come,” said Subrius the Pr?torian in a tone of grim resolve. “But Rome must have a ruler. When we shall have rid her of this tyrant, who is to succeed?”
“Why not restore the Republic?” cried Lucan. “We have a Senate, we have Consuls, and all the old machinery of the Government of freedom. The great Augustus left these things, it would seem, of set purpose, against the day when they might be wanted again.”
“The Republic is impossible,” cried Subrius; “even [21] more impossible than it was a hundred years ago. What is the Senate but an assembly of worn-out nobles and cowardly and time-serving capitalists? I know there are exceptions; one of them is here to-night,” he went on with a bow to Lateranus; “and there is Thrasea, who, I know, will make one of us, as soon as he knows what we are meditating. But the Senate as a whole is incapable. And the people, where is that to be found? Certainly not in this mob that cares for nothing but its dole of bread, its gladiators, and its chariot-races. No; the Republic is a dream. Rome must have a master. The gods send her one who is righteous as well as strong.”
“What say you of Corbulo, Licinius?” asked Sulpicius Asper, a captain of the Pr?torians, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation. “His record is not altogether spotless. But he is a great soldier, and one might conjure with his name. And then his presence is magnificent, and the people love a stately figure. Do you think that the thought has ever crossed his mind?”
“Corbulo,” replied Licinius, “is a soldier, and nothing but a soldier. And he is absolutely devoted to the Emperor. I remember how ill he took it when some one at his table said something that sounded like censure. ‘Silence!’ he thundered. ‘Emperors and gods are above praise and dispraise.’ I verily believe that if Nero bade him kill himself he would plunge his sword into his breast without a murmur. [22] No, it is idle to think of Corbulo. In fact he is one of the great difficulties that we should have to reckon with. Happily he is far off, and the business will be done before he hears of it.”