“Save a monster, what can you expect from Agrippina and myself?”

It was Domitius, Nero’s father, who made this ingenious remark.  He was not a good man; he was not even good-looking, merely vicious and rich.  But his viciousness was benign beside that of Agrippina, who poisoned him when Nero’s birth ensured the heritage of his wealth.

In all its galleries history has no other portrait such as hers.  Caligula’s sister, his mistress as well, exiled by him and threatened with death, her eyes dazzled and her nerves unstrung by the impossibilities of that fabulous reign, it was not until Claud, her uncle, recalled her and Messalina disappeared, that the empress awoke.  She too, she determined, would rule, and the jus osculi aiding, she married out of hand that imbecile uncle of hers, on whose knee she had played as a child.

The day of the wedding a young patrician, expelled from the senate, killed himself.  Agrippina had accused him of something not nice, not because he was guilty, nor yet because the possibility of the thing shocked her, but because he was betrothed to Octavia, Claud’s daughter, who, Agrippina determined, should be Nero’s wife.  Presently Caligula’s widow, an old rival of her own, a lady who had thought she would like to be empress twice, and whom Claud had eyed grotesquely, was disencumbered of three million worth of emeralds, with which she heightened her beauty, and told very civilly that it was time to die.  So, too, disappeared a Calpurina, a Lepida; women young, rich, handsome, impure, and as such dangerous to Agrippina’s peace of mind.  The legality of her crimes was so absolute that the mere ownership of an enviable object was a cause for death.  A senator had a villa which pleased her; he was invited to die.  Another had a pair of those odorous murrhine vases, which Pompey had found in Armenia, and which on their first appearance set Rome wild; he, too, was invited to die.

But, though Agrippina dealt in death, she dealt in seductions too.  Rome, that had adored Caligula, promptly fell under his sister’s sway.  There was a splendor in her eyes, which so many crimes had lit; in her carriage there was such majesty, the pomp with which she surrounded herself was so magnificent, that Rome, enthralled, applauded.  Beyond, on the Rhine, a city which is today Cologne, rose in honor of her sovereignty.  To her wishes the senate was subservient, to her indiscretions blind.  Claud, who meanwhile had been wholly sightless, suddenly showed signs of discernment.  A woman, charged with illicit commerce, was brought to his tribunal.  He condemned her, of course.  “In my case,” he explained, “matrimony has not been successful, but the fate that destined me to marry impure women destined me also to punish them.”  It was then that Agrippina ordered of Locusta that famous stew of poison and mushrooms, which Nero, in allusion to Claud’s apotheosis, called the food of the gods.  The fate that destined Claud to marry Agrippina destined her to kill him.

It was under her care, between a barber and a ballerine, amid the shamelessness of his stepfather’s palace, where any day he could have seen his mother beckon indolently to a centurion and pointing to some lover who had ceased to please, make the gesture which signified Death, that the young Enobarbus ­Nero, as he subsequently called himself ­was trained for the throne.

He had entered the world like a tiger cub, feet first; a circumstance which is said to have disturbed his mother, and well it might.  During his adolescence that lady made herself feared.  He was but seventeen when the pretorians called upon him to rule the world; and at the time an ingenuous lad, one who blushed like Lalage, very readily, particularly at the title of Father of the Country, which the senate was anxious to give him; endowed with excellent instincts, which he had got no one knew whence; a trifle petit maitre, perhaps, perfuming the soles of his feet, and careful about the arrangement of his yellow curls, but withal generous, modest, sympathetic ­in short, a flower in a cesspool, a youth not over well-fitted to reign.  But his mother was there; as he developed so did his fear of her, to such proportions even that he gave certain orders, and his mother was killed.  That duel between mother and son, terrible in its intensity and unnameable horror, even the Borgias could not surpass.  Tacitus has told it, dramatically, as was his wont, but he told it in Latin, in which tongue it had best remain.

At that time the ingenuous lad had disappeared.  The cub was full-grown.  Besides, he had tasted blood.  Octavia, who with her brother, Britannicus, and her sister, Antonia, had been his playmates; who was almost his own sister; whose earliest memories interlinked with his, and who had become his wife, had been put to death; not that she had failed to please, but because a lady, Sabina Poppoea, who, Tacitus says, lacked nothing except virtue, had declined to be his mistress.  At the time Sabina was married.  But divorce was easy.  Sabina got one at the bar; Nero with the axe.  The twain were then united.  Nero seems to have loved her greatly, a fact, as Suetonius puts it, which did not prevent him from kicking her to death.  Already he had poisoned Britannicus, and with Octavia decapitated and Agrippina gone, of the imperial house there remained but Antonia and himself.  The latter he invited to marry him; she declined.  He invited her to die.  He was then alone, the last of his race.  Monsters never engender.  A thinker who passed that way thought him right to have killed his mother; her crime was in giving him birth.

Therewith he was popular; more so even than Caligula, who was a poet, and as such apart from the crowd, while Nero was frankly canaille ­well-meaning at that ­which Caligula never was.  During the early years of his reign he could not do good enough.  The gladiators were not permitted to die; he would have no shedding of blood; the smell of it was distasteful.  He would listen to no denunciations; when a decree of death was brought to him to sign, he regretted that he knew how to write.  Rome had never seen a gentler prince, nor yet one more splendidly lavish.  The people had not only the necessities of life, but the luxuries, the superfluities, too.  For days and days in the Forum there was an incessant shower of tickets that were exchangeable, not for bread or trivial sums, but for gems, pictures, slaves, fortunes, ships, villas and estates.  The creator of that shower was bound to be adored.

It was that, no doubt, which awoke him.  A city like Rome, one that had over a million inhabitants, could make a terrific noise, and when that noise was applause, the recipient found it heady.  Nero got drunk on popularity, and heredity aiding where the prince had been emerged the cad, a poseur that bored, a beast that disgusted, a caricature of the impossible in a crimson frame.

“What an artist the world is to lose!” he exclaimed as he died; and artist he was, but in the Roman sense; one that enveloped in the same contempt the musician, acrobat and actor.  It was the artist that played the flute while gladiators died and lovers embraced; it was the artist that entertained the vulgar.

As an artist Nero might have been a card.  Fancy the attraction ­an emperor before the footlights; but fancy the boredom also.  The joy at the announcement of his first appearance was so great that thanks were offered to the gods; and the verses he was to sing, graven in gold, were dedicated to the Capitoline Jove.  The joy was brief.  The exits of the theatre were closed.  It was treason to attempt to leave.  People pretended to be dead in order to be carried out, and well they might.  The star was a fat man with a husky ténorino voice, who sang drunk and half-naked to a protecting claque of ten thousand hands.

But it was in the circus that Nero was at his best; there, no matter though he were last in the race, it was to him the palm was awarded, or rather it was he that awarded the palm to himself, and then quite magnificently shouted, “Nero, Caesar, victor in the race, gives his crown to the People of Rome!”

On the stage he had no rivals, and by chance did one appear, he was invited to die.  In that respect he was artistically susceptible.  When he turned acrobat, the statues of former victors were tossed in the latrinae.  Yet, as competitors were needed, and moreover as he, singly, could fill neither a stage nor a track, it was the nobility of Rome that he ordered to appear with him.  For that the nobility never forgave him.  On the other hand, the proletariat loved him the better.  What greater salve could it have than the sight of the conquerors of the world entertaining the conquered, lords amusing their lackeys?

Greece meanwhile sent him crowns and prayers; crowns for anticipated victories, prayers that he would come and win them.  Homage so delicate was not to be disdained.  Nero set forth, an army at his heels; a legion of claquers, a phalanx of musicians, cohorts of comedians, and with these for retinue, through sacred groves that Homer knew, through intervales which Hesiod sang, through a year of festivals he wandered, always victorious.  It was he who conquered at Olympia; it was he who conquered at Corinth.  No one could withstand him.  Alone in history he won in every game, and with eighteen hundred crowns as trophies of war he repeated Caesar’s triumph.  In a robe immaterial as a moonbeam, the Olympian wreath on his curls, the Isthmian laurel in his hand, his army behind him, the clown that was emperor entered Rome.  Victims were immolated as he passed, the Via Sacra was strewn with saffron, the day was rent with acclaiming shouts.  Throughout the empire sacrifices were ordered.  Old people that lived in the country fancied him, Philostratus says, the conqueror of new nations, and sacrificed with delight.

But if as artist he bored everybody, he was yet an admirable impresario.  The spectacles he gave were unique.  At one which was held in the Taurian amphitheatre it must have been delightful to assist.  Fancy eighty thousand people on ascending galleries, protected from the sun by a canopy of spangled silk; an arena three acres large carpeted with sand, cinnabar and borax, and in that arena death in every form, on those galleries colossal delight.

The lowest gallery, immediately above the arena, was a wide terrace where the senate sat.  There were the dignitaries of the empire, and with them priests in their sacerdotal robes; vestals in linen, their hair arranged in the six braids that were symbolic of virginity; swarms of Oriental princes, rainbows of foreign ambassadors; and in the centre, the imperial pulvinar, an enclosed pavilion, in which Nero lounged, a mignon at his feet.

In the gallery above were the necklaced knights, their tunics bordered with the augusticlave, their deep-blue cloaks fastened to the shoulder; and there, too, in their wide white togas, were the citizens of Rome.

Still higher the people sat.  In the topmost gallery were the women, and in a separate enclosure a thousand musicians answered the cries of the multitude with the blare and the laugh of brass.

Beneath the terraces, behind the barred doors that punctuated the marble wall which circled the arena, were Mauritian panthers that had been entrapped with rotten meat; hippopotami from Sais, lured by the smell of carrots into pits; the rhinoceros of Gaul, taken with the net; lions, lassoed in the deserts; Lucanian bears, Spanish bulls; and, in remoter dens, men, unarmed, that waited.

By way of foretaste for better things, a handful of criminals, local desperadoes, an impertinent slave, a machinist, who in a theatre the night before had missed an effect ­these, together with a negligent usher, were tossed one after the other naked into the ring, and bound to a scaffold that surmounted a miniature hill.  At a signal the scaffold fell, the hill crumbled, and from it a few hyenas issued, who indolently devoured their prey.

With this for prelude, the gods avenged and justice appeased, a rhinoceros ambled that way, stimulated from behind by the point of a spear; and in a moment the hyenas were disembowelled, their legs quivering in the air.  Throughout the arena other beasts, tied together with long cords, quarrelled in couples; there was the bellow of bulls, and the moan of leopards tearing at their flesh, a flight of stags, and the long, clean spring of the panther.

Presently the arena was cleared, the sand reraked and the Bestiarii advanced ­Sarmatians, nourished on mares’ milk; Sicambrians, their hair done up in chignons; horsemen from Thessaly, Ethiopian warriors, Parthian archers, huntsmen from the steppes, their different idioms uniting in a single cry ­“Caesar, we salute you.”  The sunlight, filtering through the spangled canopy, chequered their tunics with burning spots, danced on their spears and helmets, dazzled the spectators’ eyes.  From above descended the caresses of flutes; the air was sweet with perfumes, alive with multicolored motes; the terraces were parterres of blending hues, and into that splendor a hundred lions, their tasselled tails sweeping the sand, entered obliquely.

The mob of the Bestiarii had gone.  In the middle of the arena, a band of Ethiopians, armed with arrows, knives and spears, knelt, their oiled black breasts uncovered.

Leisurely the lions turned their huge, intrepid heads; to their jowls wide creases came.  There was a glitter of fangs, a shiver that moved the mane, a flight of arrows, mounting murmurs; the crouch of beasts preparing to spring, a deafening roar, and, abruptly, a tumultuous mass, the suddenness of knives, the snap of bones, the cry of the agonized, the fury of beasts transfixed, the shrieks of the mangled, a combat hand to fang, from which lions fell back, their jaws torn asunder, while others retreated, a black body swaying between their terrible teeth, and, insensibly, a descending quiet.

At once there was an eruption of bellowing elephants, painted and trained for slaughter, that trampled on wounded and dead.  At a call from a keeper the elephants disappeared.  There was a rush of mules and slaves; the carcasses and corpses vanished, the toilet of the ring was made; then came a plunge of bulls, mists of vapor about their long, straight horns, their anxious eyes dilated.  Beyond was a troop of Thessalians.  For a moment the bulls snorted, pawing the sand with their fore-feet, as though trying to realize what they were doing there.  Yet instantly they seemed to know, and with lowered heads, they plunged on the point of spears.  But no matter, horses went down by the hundred; and as the bulls tired of gorging the dead, they fought each other; fought rancorously, fought until weariness overtook them, and the surviving Thessalians leaped on their backs, twisted their horns, and threw them down, a sword through their throbbing throats.

Successively the arena was occupied by bears, by panthers, by dogs trained for the chase, by hunters and hunted.  But the episode of the morning was a dash of wild elephants, attacked on either side; a moment of sheer delight, in which the hunters were tossed up on the terraces, tossed back again by the spectators, and trampled to death.

With that for bouquet the first part of the performance was at an end.  By way of interlude, the ring was peopled with acrobats, who flew up in the air like birds, formed pyramids together, on the top of which little boys swung and smiled.  There was a troop of trained lions, their manes gilded, that walked on tight-ropes, wrote obscenities in Greek, and danced to cymbals which one of them played.  There were geese-fights, wonderful combats between dwarfs and women; a chariot race, in which bulls, painted white, held the reins, standing upright while drawn at full speed; a chase of ostriches, and feats of haute école on zebras from Madagascar.

The interlude at an end, the sand was reraked, and preceded by the pomp of lictors, interminable files of gladiators entered, holding their knives to Nero that he might see that they were sharp.  It was then the eyes of the vestals lighted; artistic death was their chiefest joy, and in a moment, when the spectacle began and the first gladiator fell, above the din you could hear their cry “Hic habet!” and watch their delicate thumbs reverse.

There was no cowardice in that arena.  If by chance any hesitation were discernible, instantly there were hot irons, the sear of which revivified courage at once.  But that was rare.  The gladiators fought for applause, for liberty, for death; fought manfully, skilfully, terribly, too, and received the point of the sword or the palm of the victor, their expression unchanged, the face unmoved.  Among them, some provided with a net and prodigiously agile, pursued their adversaries hither and thither, trying to entangle them first and kill them later.  Others, protected by oblong shields and armed with short, sharp swords, fought hand-to-hand.  There were still others, mailed horsemen, who fought with the lance, and charioteers that dealt death from high Briton cars.

As a spectacle it was unique; one that the Romans, or more exactly, their predecessors, the Etruscans, had devised to train their children for war and allay the fear of blood.  It had been serviceable, indeed, and though the need of it had gone, still the institution endured, and in enduring constituted the chief delight of the vestals and of Rome.  By means of it a bankrupt became consul and an emperor beloved.  It had stayed revolutions, it was the tax of the proletariat on the rich.  Silver and bread were for the individual, but these things were for the crowd.

During the pauses of the combats the dead were removed by men masked as Mercury, god of hell; red irons, that others, masked as Charon, bore, being first applied as safeguard against swoon or fraud.  And when, to the kisses of flutes, the last palm had been awarded, the last death acclaimed, a ballet was given; that of Paris and Venus, which Apuleius has described so well, and for afterpiece the romance of Pasipha? and the bull.  Then, as night descended, so did torches, too; the arena was strewn with vermilion; tables were set, and to the incitement of crotals, Lydians danced before the multitude, toasting the last act of that wonderful day.

It was with such magnificence that Nero showed the imprésario’s skill, the politician’s adroitness.  Where the artist, which he claimed to be, really appeared, was in the refurbishing of Rome.

In spite of Augustus’ boast, the city was not by any means of marble.  It was filled with crooked little streets, with the atrocities of the Tarquíns, with houses unsightly and perilous, with the moss and dust of ages; it compared with Alexandria as London compares with Paris; it had a splendor of its own, but a splendor that could be heightened.

Whether the conflagration which occurred at that time was the result of accident or design is uncertain and in any event immaterial.  Tacitus says that when it began Nero was at Antium, in which case he must have hastened to return, for admitting that he did not originate the fire, it is a matter of agreement that he collaborated in it.  In quarters where it showed symptoms of weakness it was by his orders coaxed to new strength; colossal stone buildings, on which it had little effect, were battered down with catapults.

Fire is a perfect poet.  No designer ever imagined the surprises it creates, and when, at the end of the week, three-fourths of the city was in ruins, the beauty that reigned there must have been sublime.  That it inspired Nero is presumable.  The palace on the Palatine, which Tiberius embellished and Caligula enlarged, had gone; in its place rose another, aflame with gold.  Before it Neropolis extended, a city of triumphal arches, enchanted temples, royal dwellings, shimmering porticoes, glittering roofs, and wide, hospitable streets.  It was fair to the eye, purely Greek; and on its heart, from the Circus Maximus to the Forum’s edge, the new and gigantic palace shone.  Before it was a lake, a part of which Vespasian drained and replaced with an amphitheatre that covered eight acres.  About that lake were separate edifices that formed a city in themselves; between them and the palace, a statue of Nero in gold and silver mounted precipitately a hundred and twenty feet ­a statue which it took twenty-four elephants to move.  About it were green savannahs, forest reaches, the call of bird and deer, while in the distance, fronted by a stretch of columns a mile in length, the palace stood ­a palace so ineffably charming that on the day of reckoning may it outbalance a few of his sins.  Even the cellars were frescoed.  The baths were quite comfortable; you had waters salt or sulphurous at will.  The dining halls had ivory ceilings from which flowers fell, and wainscots that changed at each service.  The walls were alive with the glisten of gems, with marbles rarer than jewels.  In one hall was a dome of sapphire, a floor of malachite, crystal columns and red-gold walls.

“At last,” Nero murmured, “I am lodged like a man.”

No doubt.  Yet in a mirror he would have seen a bloated beast in a flowered gown, the hair done up in a chignon, the skin covered with eruptions, the eyes circled and yellow; a woman who had hours when she imitated a virgin at bay, others when she was wife, still others when she expected to be a mother, and that woman, a senatorial patent of divinity aiding, was god ­Apollo’s peer, imperator, chief of the army, pontifix maximus, master of the world, with the incontestable right of life and death over every being in the dominions.

It had taken the fresh-faced lad who blushed so readily, just fourteen years to effect that change.  Did he regret it?  And what should Nero regret?  Nothing, perhaps, save that at the moment when he declared himself to be lodged like a man, he had not killed himself like one.  But of that he was incapable.  Had he known what the future held, possibly he might have imitated that apotheosis of vulgarity in which Sardanapalus eclipsed himself, but never could he have died with the good breeding and philosophy of Cato, for neither good breeding nor philosophy was in him.  Nero killed himself like a coward, yet that he did kill himself, in no matter what fashion, is one of the few things that can be said in his favor.

Those days differed from ours.  There were circumstances in which suicide was regarded as the simplest of duties.  Nero did his duty, but not until he was forced to it, and even then not until he had been asked several times whether it was so hard to die.  The empire had wearied of him.  In Neropolis his popularity had gone as popularity ever does; the conflagration had killed it.

Even as he wandered, lyre in hand, a train of Lesbians and pederasts at his heels, through those halls which had risen on the ruins, and which inexhaustible Greece had furnished with a fresh crop of white immortals, the world rebelled.  Afar on the outskirts of civilization a vassal, ashamed of his vassalage, declared war, not against Rome, but against an emperor that played the flute.  In Spain, in Gaul, the legions were choosing other chiefs.  The provinces, depleted by imperial exactions, outwearied by the increasing number of accusers, whose accusations impoverishing them served only to multiply the prodigalities of their Caesar, revolted.

Suddenly Nero found himself alone.  As the advancing rumor of rebellion reached him, he thought of flight; there was no one that would accompany him.  He called to the pretorians; they would not hear.  Through the immensity of his palace he sought one friend.  The doors would not open.  He returned to his apartment; the guards had gone.  Then terror seized him.  He was afraid to die, afraid to live, afraid of his solitude, afraid of Rome, afraid of himself; but what frightened him most was that everyone had lost their fear of him.  It was time to go, and a slave aiding, he escaped in disguise from Rome, and killed himself, reluctantly, in a hovel.

“Qualis artifex pereo!” he is reported to have muttered.  Say rather, qualis maechus.