In Antium, meanwhile, Petronius gained new victories almost daily over courtiers vying with him for the favor of Caesar. The influence of Tigellinus had fallen completely. In Rome, when there was occasion to set aside men who seemed dangerous, to plunder their property or to settle political cases, to give spectacles astounding by their luxury and bad taste, or finally to satisfy the monstrous whims of Caesar, Tigellinus, as adroit, as he was ready for anything, became indispensable. But in Antium, among palaces reflected in the azure of the sea, Caesar led a Hellenic existence. From morning till evening Nero and his attendants read verses, discoursed on their structure and finish, were delighted with happy turns of expression, were occupied with music, the theater—in a word, exclusively with that which Grecian genius had invented, and with which it had beautified life. Under these conditions Petronius, incomparably more refined than Tigellinus and the other courtiers—witty, eloquent, full of subtle feelings and tastes—obtained preeminence of necessity. Caesar sought his society, took his opinion, asked for advice when he composed, and showed a more lively friendship than at any other time whatever. It seemed to courtiers that his influence had won a supreme triumph at last, that friendship between him and Caesar had entered on a period of certainty which would last for years. Even those who had shown dislike previously to the exquisite Epicurean, began now to crowd around him and vie for his favor. More than one was even sincerely glad in his soul that preponderance had come to a man who knew really what to think of a given person, who received with a skeptical smile the flattery of his enemies of yesterday, but who, either through indolence or culture, was not vengeful, and did not use his power to the detriment or destruction of others. There were moments when he might have destroyed even Tigellinus, but he preferred to ridicule him, and expose his vulgarity and want of refinement. In Rome the Senate drew breath, for no death sentence had been issued for a month and a half. It is true that in Antium and the city people told wonders of the refinement which the profligacy of Caesar and his favorite had reached, but everyone preferred a refined Caesar to one brutalized in the hands of Tigellinus. Tigellinus himself lost his head, and hesitated whether or not to yield as conquered, for Caesar had said repeatedly that in all Rome and in his court there were only two spirits capable of understanding each other, two real Hellenes—he and Petronius.

The amazing dexterity of Petronius confirmed people in the conviction that his influence would outlive every other. They did not see how Caesar could dispense with him—with whom could he converse touching poetry, music, and comparative excellence; in whose eyes could he look to learn whether his creation was indeed perfect? Petronius, with his habitual indifference, seemed to attach no importance to his position. As usual, he was remiss, slothful, skeptical, and witty. He produced on people frequently the impression of a man who made light of them, of himself, of Caesar, of the whole world. At moments he ventured to criticize Caesar to his face, and when others judged that he was going too far, or simply preparing his own ruin, he was able to turn the criticism suddenly in such a way that it came out to his profit; he roused amazement in those present, and the conviction that there was no position from which he could not issue in triumph.

About a week after the return of Vinicius from Rome, Caesar read in a small circle an extract from his Troyad; when he had finished and the shouts of rapture had ended, Petronius, interrogated by a glance from Caesar, replied—

“Common verses, fit for the fire.”

The hearts of those present stopped beating from terror. Since the years of his childhood Nero had never heard such a sentence from any man. The face of Tigellinus was radiant with delight. But Vinicius grew pale, thinking that Petronius, who thus far had never been drunk, was drunk this time.

Nero, however, inquired in a honeyed voice, in which more or less deeply wounded vanity was quivering—

“What defect dost thou find in them?”

“Do not believe them,” said Petronius, attacking him, and pointing to those present; “they understand nothing. Thou hast asked what defect there is in thy verses. If thou desire truth, I will tell thee. Thy verses would be worthy of Virgil, of Ovid, even of Homer, but they are not worthy of thee. Thou art not free to write such. The conflagration described by thee does not blaze enough; thy fire is not hot enough. Listen not to Lucan’s flatteries. Had he written those verses, I should acknowledge him a genius, but thy case is different. And knowest thou why? Thou art greater than they. From him who is gifted of the gods as thou art, more is demanded. But thou art slothful—thou wouldst rather sleep after dinner than sit to wrinkles. Thou canst create a work such as the world has not heard of to this day; hence I tell thee to thy eyes, write better!”

And he said this carelessly, as if bantering and also chiding; but Caesar’s eyes were mist-covered from delight.

“The gods have given me a little talent,” said he, “but they have given me something greater, a true judge and friend, the only man able to speak the truth to my eyes.”

Then he stretched his fat hand, grown over with reddish hair, to a golden candelabrum plundered from Delphi, to burn the verses. But Petronius seized them before the flame touched the paper.

“No, no!” said he; “even thus they belong to mankind. Leave them to me.”

“In such case let me send them to thee in a cylinder of my own invention,” answered Nero, embracing Petronius.

“True; thou art right,” said he, after a while. “My conflagration of Troy does not blaze enough; my fire is not hot enough. But I thought it sufficient to equal Homer. A certain timidity and low estimate of my power have fettered me always. Thou hast opened my eyes. But knowest why it is, as thou sayest? When a sculptor makes the statue of a god, he seeks a model; but never have I had a model. I never have seen a burning city; hence there is a lack of truth in my description.”

“Then I will say that only a great artist understands this.”

Nero grew thoughtful, and after a while he said—“Answer one question, Petronius. Dost thou regret the burning of Troy?”

“Do I regret? By the lame consort of Venus, not in the least! And I will tell thee the reason. Troy would not have been consumed if Prometheus had not given fire to man, and the Greeks made war on Priam. Aeschylus would not have written his Prometheus had there been no fire, just as Homer would not have written the Iliad had there been no Trojan war. I think it better to have Prometheus and the Iliad than a small and shabby city, which was unclean, I think, and wretched, and in which at best there would be now some procurator annoying thee through quarrels with the local Areopagus.”

“That is what we call speaking with sound reason,” said Nero. “For art and poetry it is permitted, and it is right, to sacrifice everything. Happy were the Achaeans who furnished Homer with the substance of the Iliad, and happy Priam who beheld the ruin of his birthplace. As to me, I have never seen a burning city.”

A time of silence followed, which was broken at last by Tigellinus.

“But I have said to thee, Caesar, already, command and I will burn Antium; or dost thou know what? If thou art sorry for these villas and palaces, give command to burn the ships in Ostia; or I will build a wooden city on the Alban Hills, into which thou shalt hurl the fire thyself. Dost thou wish?”

“Am I to gaze on the burning of wooden sheds?” asked Nero, casting a look of contempt on him. “Thy mind has grown utterly barren, Tigellinus. And I see, besides, that thou dost set no great value on my talent or my Troyad, since thou judgest that any sacrifice would be too great for it.”

Tigellinus was confused; but Nero, as if wishing to change the conversation, added after a while—

“Summer is passing. Oh, what a stench there must be in that Rome now! And still we must return for the summer games.”

“When thou dismissest the Augustians, O Caesar, permit me to remain with thee a moment,” said Tigellinus.

An hour later Vinicius, returning with Petronius from Caesar’s villa, said—“I was a trifle alarmed for thee. I judged that while drunk thou hadst ruined thyself beyond redemption. Remember that thou art playing with death.”

“That is my arena,” answered Petronius, carelessly; “and the feeling that I am the best gladiator in it amuses me. See how it ended. My influence has increased this evening. He will send me his verses in a cylinder which—dost wish to lay a wager?—will be immensely rich and in immensely bad taste. I shall command my physician to keep physic in it. I did this for another reason—because Tigellinus, seeing how such things succeed, will wish surely to imitate me, and I imagine what will happen. The moment he starts a witticism, it will be as if a bear of the Pyrenees were rope-walking. I shall laugh like Democritus. If I wished I could destroy Tigellinus perhaps, and become pretorian prefect in his place, and have Ahenobarbus himself in my hands. But I am indolent; I prefer my present life and even Caesar’s verses to trouble.”

“What dexterity to be able to turn even blame into flattery! But are those verses really so bad? I am no judge in those matters.”

“The verses are not worse than others. Lucan has more talent in one finger, but in Bronzebeard too there is something. He has, above all, an immense love for poetry and music. In two days we are to be with him to hear the music of his hymn to Aphrodite, which he will finish today or tomorrow. We shall be in a small circle—only I, thou, Tullius Senecio, and young Nerva. But as to what I said touching Nero’s verses, that I use them after feasting as Vitellius does flamingo feathers, is not true. At times they are eloquent. Hecuba’s words are touching. She complains of the pangs of birth, and Nero was able to find happy expressions—for this reason, perhaps, that he gives birth to every verse in torment. At times I am sorry for him. By Pollux, what a marvelous mixture! The fifth stave was lacking in Caligula, but still he never did such strange things.”

“Who can foresee to what the madness of Ahenobarbus will go?” asked Vinicius.

“No man whatever. Such things may happen yet that the hair will stand on men’s heads for whole centuries at thought of them. But it is that precisely which interests me; and though I am bored more than once, like Jupiter Ammon in the desert, I believe that under another Caesar I should be bored a hundred times more. Paul, thy little Jew, is eloquent—that I accord to him; and if people like him proclaim that religion, our gods must defend themselves seriously, lest in time they be led away captive. It is true that if Caesar, for example, were a Christian, all would feel safer. But thy prophet of Tarsus, in applying proofs to me, did not think, seest thou, that for me this uncertainty becomes the charm of life. Whoso does not play at dice will not lose property, but still people play at dice. There is in that a certain delight and destruction of the present. I have known sons of knights and senators to become gladiators of their own will. I play with life, thou sayest, and that is true, but I play because it pleases me; while Christian virtues would bore me in a day, as do the discourses of Seneca. Because of this, Paul’s eloquence is exerted in vain. He should understand that people like me will never accept his religion. With thy disposition thou mightst either hate the name Christian, or become a Christian immediately. I recognize, while yawning, the truth of what they say. We are mad. We are hastening to the precipice, something unknown is coming toward us out of the future, something is breaking beneath us, something is dying around us—agreed! But we shall succeed in dying; meanwhile we have no wish to burden life, and serve death before it takes us. Life exists for itself alone, not for death.”

“But I pity thee, Petronius.”

“Do not pity me more than I pity myself. Formerly thou wert glad among us; while campaigning in Armenia, thou wert longing for Rome.”

“And now I am longing for Rome.”

“True; for thou art in love with a Christian vestal, who sits in the Trans-Tiber. I neither wonder at this, nor do I blame thee. I wonder more, that in spite of a religion described by thee as a sea of happiness, and in spite of a love which is soon to be crowned, sadness has not left thy face. Pomponia Graecina is eternally pensive; from the time of thy becoming a Christian thou hast ceased to laugh. Do not try to persuade me that this religion is cheerful. Thou hast returned from Rome sadder than ever. If Christians love in this way, by the bright curls of Bacchus! I shall not imitate them!”

“That is another thing,” answered Vinicius. “I swear to thee, not by the curls of Bacchus, but by the soul of my father, that never in times past have I experienced even a foretaste of such happiness as I breathe today. But I yearn greatly; and what is stranger, when I am far from Lygia, I think that danger is threatening her. I know not what danger, nor whence it may come; but I feel it, as one feels a coming tempest.”

“In two days I will try to obtain for thee permission to leave Antium, for as long a time as may please thee. Poppaea is somewhat more quiet; and, as far as I know, no danger from her threatens thee or Lygia.”

“This very day she asked me what I was doing in Rome, though my departure was secret.”

“Perhaps she gave command to set spies on thee. Now, however, even she must count with me.”

“Paul told me,” said Vinicius, “that God forewarns sometimes, but does not permit us to believe in omens; hence I guard myself against this belief, but I cannot ward it off. I will tell thee what happened, so as to cast the weight from my heart. Lygia and I were sitting side by side on a night as calm as this, and planning our future. I cannot tell thee how happy and calm we were. All at once lions began to roar. That is common in Rome, but since then I have no rest. It seems to me that in that roaring there was a threat, an announcement as it were of misfortune. Thou knowest that I am not frightened easily; that night, however, something happened which filled all the darkness with terror. It came so strangely and unexpectedly that I have those sounds in my ears yet, and unbroken fear in my heart, as if Lygia were asking my protection from something dreadful—even from those same lions. I am in torture. Obtain for me permission to leave Antium, or I shall go without it. I cannot remain. I repeat to thee, I cannot!”

“Sons of consuls or their wives are not given to lions yet in the arenas,” said Petronius, laughing. “Any other death may meet thee but that. Who knows, besides, that they were lions? German bisons roar with no less gentleness than lions. As to me, I ridicule omens and fates. Last night was warm and I saw stars falling like rain. Many a man has an evil foreboding at such a sight; but I thought, ‘If among these is my star too, I shall not lack society at least!’ ” Then he was silent, but added after a moment’s thought—“If your Christ has risen from the dead, He may perhaps protect you both from death.”

“He may,” answered Vinicius, looking at the heavens filled with stars.