“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 gods 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 pass 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 Pr?torians, Silvanus by name.
“Well, Silvanus, what news?” asked Rufus.
“I will tell you,” replied the other, “and you must judge what is to be done. Yesterday C?sar sent for me, after he had finished his examination of the prisoners. Tigellinus was with him, and Popp?a; Antonius Natalis was there, with handcuffs on his hands, and a soldier on each side of him. ‘Repeat, Natalis,’ said C?sar, ‘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, C?sar said to me, ‘You hear, Silvanus, 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 C?sar 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 Popp?a. 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 C?sar, ‘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 Silvanus.
“And why?” asked the Prefect.
“Do you ask me why?” cried Silvanus. “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. “Silvanus is right. He sees that this is our last chance. Piso is dead, Lateranus 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, F?nius Rufus, and I will go with Silvanus 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, Silvanus; 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, Silvanus. I would fain see how a philosopher can die; it will not be long before we shall need the lesson.”
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THE DEATH OF A PHILOSPHER
[275] SCARCELY a word passed between the two Tribunes as they traversed the distance, some four miles or so, that lay between the camp and Seneca’s villa. Silvanus 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 circumstances to be silent was the only course. Arrived at the villa, Silvanus 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.”
Silvanus 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.