“Yes, they are. Cicero was murdered, and I feel inclined to follow the example of Cato, who died in order to escape sin. I sink, Flaccus, in lies and hypocrisy. But I will not sink … I will mount. I have praised Augustus and his son Marcellus in my verses, but I believe no more in them, for they are not the future. Therefore the Aeneid shall be burnt!”

“You disquiet me, Maro. But what do you believe in?”

“I believe in the Sibyl, who has prophesied that the Iron Age will end, and the Golden Age return.”

“You have sung of that in the Fourth Eclogue, I remember.... Have you fever?”

“I believe I have. Do you remember—no! our fathers remember when the Capitol was burnt, and the Sibylline books destroyed. But now new books have come from Alexandria, and in them they have read that a new era will begin; that Rome will be destroyed but built up again, and that a Golden Age....”

Here the seer was silent. Then he continued: “Pardon me, Flaccus, but I am poorly, and must ride home before the mists rise from the Campagna.”

“Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume! Labuntur anni! I will follow you, friend, on my ass, for you are sick. But ‘the man of righteous heart and rock-like purpose will not be shaken nor terrified by the blind zeal of the citizens commanding evil, nor the glance of the threatening tyrant.... If the walls of the world fall in, they will bury him unterrified beneath their ruin.’”

Some days later Virgil died in Naples. His will was opened, and actually found to contain a request that his Aeneid should be burnt. But it was not carried out. Posterity has passed various judgments on this ignoring of a dead man’s wish—some think it was a pity; others that it was a good thing.

When Christianity arrived, Virgil was enrolled among the prophets. The Aeneid was regarded as a Sibylline book and included in the liturgy. Pilgrimages were made to the poet’s tomb. And later on he was raised to the rank of a saint by Dante.

LEONTOPOLIS

A caravan was encamped on a height eastward of the ancient Egyptian town Heliopolis. There were many people in it, but all were Hebrews. They had come on camels and asses from Palestine through the desert—the same desert which the Israelites had passed through thousands of years before.

In the evening twilight, by the faint light of the half-moon, hundreds of camp-fires were to be seen, and by them sat the women with their little children while the men carried water.

Never yet had the desert beheld so many little children, and, as they were now being put to bed for the night, the camp echoed with their cries. It was like an enormous nursery. But when the washing was over, and the little ones were laid to their mothers’ breasts, the cries one after the other ceased, and there was complete silence. Under a sycamore tree sat a woman, and suckled her child; close by stood a Hebrew, feeding his ass with branches of the broom plant; when he had done that, he went higher up the hill, and looked towards the north. A foreigner—a Roman, to judge by his dress—passed, and regarded the woman with the child closely, as though he were counting them.

The Hebrew showed signs of uneasiness, and began a conversation with the Roman, in order to divert his attention from the woman.

“Say, traveller, is that the City of the Sun there in the west?”

“You see it!” answered the Roman.

“Then it is Bethshemesh.”

“Heliopolis, from which both Greeks and Romans have derived their wisdom; Plato himself has been here.”

“Can Leontopolis also be seen from here?”

“You see the pinnacles of its temple two miles northward.”

“But that is the land of Goshen, which our father Abraham visited, and which Jacob had portioned out to him,” said the Hebrew, turning to his wife, who only answered with an inclination of her head. Then, speaking to the Roman, he continued, “Israel wandered from Egypt to Canaan. But after the Babylonish captivity a part of them returned and settled down here. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that. And now the Israelites here have increased till they number many thousand souls, and have built a temple for themselves, which you see standing in the distance. Did you know that?”

“Yes, something about it. So that, then, is Roman territory?”

“Yes. Everything is Roman now—Syria, Canaan, Greece, Egypt—Germany, Gaul, Britain; the world belongs to Rome, according to the prophecy of the Cumaean Sibyl.”

“Good! But the world is to be redeemed through Israel, according to God’s promise to our father Abraham.”

“I have heard that fable also, but for the present Rome has the fulfilment of the promise. Do you come from Jerusalem?”

“I come through the desert like the others, and I bring wife and child with me.”

“Child—yes! Why do you Hebrews carry so many children with you?”

The Hebrew was silent, but since he perceived that the Roman knew the reason, and since the latter looked like a benevolent man, he resolved to tell the truth.

“Herod the King heard from the Wise Men of the East the prophecy that a King of the Jews would be born in Bethlehem in the land of Judaea. In order to escape the supposed danger, Herod had all the children recently born in that district put to death. Just as Pharaoh once had our first-born put to death here. But Moses was saved, in order to free our people from the Egyptian bondage.”

“Well! but who was this King of the Jews to be?”

“The promised Messiah.”

“Do you believe that he is born?”

“I cannot tell.”

“I can,” said the Roman. “He is born; he will rule the world, and bring all people under his sceptre.”

“And who will that be?”

“The Emperor, Augustus.”

“Is he of Abraham’s seed or of David’s house? No. And has he come with peace, as Isaiah prophesied, ‘His kingdom shall be great, and of peace there shall be no end’? The Emperor is certainly not a man of peace.”

“Farewell, Israelite. Now you are a Roman subject. Be content with the redemption through Rome. We know not of any other.”

The Roman departed.

The Hebrew approached his wife. “Mary!” he said.

“Joseph!” she answered. “Hush! The child sleeps.”

THE LAMB

Herod Antipas, the Tetrarch, had come to Jerusalem, because there was much unrest among the populace. He had taken up his dwelling with Pilate, the Governor. Since on the preceding evening he had witnessed a gladiatorial show in the circus and then taken part in an orgy, he slept late into the morning—so late that his host, who was waiting for his guest, had gone upon the roof.

There lay the Holy City, with Mount Moriah and the Temple, Zion and David’s House. To the north-west and west there stretched the Valley of Sharon to the Mediterranean Sea, which in the clear air appeared like a blue streak at a distance of five miles.

In the east there rose the Mount of Olives, with its gardens and vineyards, olives, figs and terebinths, below ran the brook Kedron whose banks were decked in their spring apparel of flourishing laurels, tamarisks, and willows.

The Governor was restless, and often paused to stand by the parapet of the roof in order to look down into the forecourt of the Temple. Here numbers of people moved about busily, forming themselves into knots which dissolved and then formed larger groups.

At last the Tetrarch appeared. He had overslept himself, and his eyes were blood-shot. He gave the Governor a brief greeting, and settled himself as though for a conversation. But he found it hard to bring out a word; his head hung down, and he did not know how to begin, for the orgies of the preceding night had made him forget what he had come for.

Pilate came to his help: “Speak, Herod; your heart is full, and your mind uneasy.”

“What do you say, my brother?”

“We were speaking yesterday of the strange man who stirs up the people.”

“Quite right! I had John beheaded. Is it he who is going about?”

“No, it is another one now.”

“Are there two of them?”

“Yes, this is another one.”

“But they have the same history—a prophecy which foretold their birth, and the fable of a supernatural origin, just like the Perseus of mythology, and the philosopher Plato in history. Is it a confusion of persons?”

“No, not at all.”

“What is his name? Josua, Jesse…?”

“His name is Jesus, and he is said to have passed his childhood in the Egyptian towns Heliopolis and Leontopolis.”

“Then he must be a magician or wizard; can he not come and divert me?”

“It is difficult to find him, for he is now in one place, now in another. But we will question the High Priest; I have had him called, and he waits below.”

“Why is there this commotion in the court of the Temple?”

“They are going to erect the Emperor’s statue in the Holy of Holies.”

“Quite right! Our gracious Emperor Tiberius lives like a madman on Capri, and is pummelled by his nephew Caligula, if the offspring of incest can be called a nephew. And now he is to become a god. Ha! Ha!”

“Antiochus Epiphanes had the statue of Zeus set up in the Holy of Holies. He, however, was a god. But to set up this beast, Tiberius, means a tumult.”

“What are we to do? Call the Priest here.”

Pilate went and fetched the High Priest Caiaphas.

Herod closed his eyes, and folded his hands over his breast. He regarded all matters of business as an interruption to his pleasures, and generally liked to cut them short. When Pilate returned with Caiaphas, the Tetrarch awoke from his doze, and did not know where he was, or what they were talking about. Pilate stepped forward, aroused him to consciousness, and directed his attention to the matter in hand.

“There is a tumult in the Temple,” was his first observation, for that disturbed his sleep. “Ah! the Priest is here. What is the meaning of the uproar below?”

“It is the Galilaean, who has taken to using force, and has driven the money-changers out of the Temple.”

Herod’s curiosity was aroused: “I should like to see him.”

“He has already gone.”

“Tell us, High Priest, who is this man? Is he the Messiah?”

“That is incredible. The son of a poor carpenter, who is weak in the head!”

“Is he a prophet?”

“He stirs up the people, he breaks the law, he is a glutton and wine-bibber, and he blasphemes God. Yes, he says that he himself is God, the Son of the Highest.”

“Have you witnesses to this?”

“Yes, but they contradict each other.”

“Then procure better witnesses, who will agree. But now, Priest, we must talk of something else. You know that the Senate have decreed the apotheosis of the Emperor, and that his image is to be set up in the Temple. What do you think about it?”

“We live by the favour of the Emperor. But if this abomination is done, we will all die as the Maccabees did.”

“Then die!”

Caiaphas considered a moment before he answered. “I will summon the Sanhedrim, and tell them what the Emperor wishes.”

“Yes, do that. And before the Passover you must bring the Galilaean before me, for I wish to see him.”

“I will.”

“Then go in peace.”

Caiaphas retired.

“They are a hard people, these Israelites,” said Pilate, for want of something better to say. “I am also of Israel,” answered Herod somewhat curtly, “for I am an Edomite, of Esau’s race, and my mother was a Samaritan, belonging to the despised people.”

Pilate saw that he had made a slip, and therefore struck the ground three times with his official staff. A large trap-door opened, and a table came up covered with all kinds of delicacies according to Roman taste.

Herod’s countenance cleared.

In the Court of the Priests stood Caiaphas and Annas, and spoke with each other.

“Since we cannot avert the abomination,” said Caiaphas, “and the Emperor’s image is to be erected in the Holy of Holies, and the people will be destroyed if there is an insurrection, it is better for us to bring an offering to the Lord, and that one man die for the people.”

“You are right. An extraordinary atoning sacrifice is necessary, and as the Passover is approaching, let us sacrifice the Galilaean.”

“Good! But the offering should be pure. Is the Galilaean pure?”

“Pure as a lamb.”

“May he then take Israel’s sins upon him, that we may be set free through his blood. Who brings him into our hands?”

“One of his disciples, who stands outside.”

“Fetch him in.”

John, later known as the “Evangelist,” was brought in, and Caiaphas began to examine him.

“What do you say concerning your teacher? Has he transgressed the law of Moses?”

“He has fulfilled the law.”

“But what new commandment has he introduced into our holy law?”

“Love one another.”

“Did he say he was the King of the Jews?”

“The Master said, ‘My kingdom is not of this world.’”

“Has he not made children rebel against their parents?”

“The Master said, ‘He who loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.’”

“Did he not say that one has a right to neglect one’s duties as a citizen?”

“The Master said, ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness.’”

“Did he tell labourers to leave their work?”

“The Master said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden.’”

“Did he say that he would conquer the world?”

“The Master said, ‘In the world ye have tribulation, but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.’”

Caiaphas was weary: “According to all that I have heard and perceived, this man has not answered a single question.”

“The Master answers in spirit and in truth, but you ask according to the flesh and the letter. We are not the children of one spirit.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He has sent me to preach good tidings to the poor, to heal the broken in heart, to preach deliverance to the captives, to give sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised.”

“What you speak in foolishness, young man, can neither bring credit to you nor to your teacher.”

“Woe unto you when men praise you, and he who departeth from evil maketh himself a prey.”

Caiaphas turned to Annas: “This is not the man who will deliver the Galilaean up to us.”

“They have sent another one—Listen! Is your name Iscariot?”

“No; my name is John.”

“Then go in peace, but send us Iscariot instead. But wait! Give us in two words the teaching of your Master regarding the meaning of life.”

“Death is a gain for the righteous,” answered John without stopping to think.

“Is life not itself…?”

“Through death ye shall enter into life.”

“We have heard enough. Go.”

But Caiaphas repeated to himself, as though he thought he would understand those words in his own mouth better: “Death is a gain for the righteous.”

Now there arose a clamour from the market-place and the hall of justice. Annas and Caiaphas went out upon the battlemented walls to find out the cause. Levites were standing there, and looking down.

“Has he been taken?”

“He has already been seized as an inciter to insurrection, because he bade his disciples to sell their garments and buy a sword.”

“Have they found them with weapons?”

“They have found two swords.”

“Then he is already condemned.”

Then they heard a cry rise from the crowd before the Court of Justice—at first difficult to distinguish, but ever clearer. The people were crying “Crucify! Crucify!”

“Is that not too severe, regarded as a punishment?” said Caiaphas.

“No,” answered the Levite; “one of his disciples called Simon or Peter drew his sword and wounded one of the servants called Malchus.”

“Do we need any more witnesses?”

“But the Teacher said, ‘Put up thy sword into its sheath, for they that take the sword, shall perish with the sword.’”

“That is a difficult saying,” said Annas, and went down. But the people continued to cry, “Crucify! Crucify!”

THE WILD BEAST

Before the temple of Jupiter Latiaris in Rome, two men of the middle classes met each other. They both remained standing in order to contemplate the new temple, which was different from all others, and looked as if it had felt the effects of an earthquake. The basement had the shape of a roof; the columns stood reversed with their capitals below, and the roof was constructed like a basement with cellar-windows.

“So we meet here again, Hebrew,” said one of the two, who resembled a Roman merchant. “Was it not in Joppa that we last met?”

“Yes,” answered the Hebrew. “One meets the Roman everywhere; he is at home everywhere; one also meets the Hebrew everywhere, but he is at home nowhere. But tell me, whose temple is this?”

“This is the Temple of the Wild Beast, the Emperor Caligula, the madman, the murderer, the incestuous. He has erected it to himself; his image stands within; and the madman comes every day to worship himself.”

So saying, the Roman made a sign on his forehead, moving the forefinger of his right hand first from above, below, and then from left to right.

The Hebrew looked at him in astonishment.

“Are you not a Roman?”

“Yes, I am a Roman Christian.”

“Where do you live?”

“Here under Rome, in the catacombs.”

He pointed to a hole in the ground, which resembled those that led down to the cloacae.

“Do you live here under the ground?”

“Yes, that is where we Christians live; there we lie like seed in the earth, and germinate.”

“Those are grave-vaults down there.”

“Yes, we are buried with Christ, and await the resurrection.”

“Have you a temple down there?”

“We have our religious service there, and to-day we celebrate the birth of Christ.”

“Someone is coming down the street,” said the Hebrew. The Roman opened the trap-door in the ground in order to descend. From below the sounds of a choral hymn were heard. “The City hath no need of the moon, neither of the sun, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.”

“Who is the Lamb?” asked the Hebrew.

“Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the World.”

“Do you think the world is redeemed, while this mad Caligula....”

“The world will be redeemed, if we continue to hope.”

“You have, then, taken the promise away from Israel?”

“No, we have inherited the promise, for Christ was of the stock of Israel.”

“Someone is coming.”

“Then farewell. We shall always meet, for the earth is ours.”

In the temple, which people called “the world turned upside down,” a man slunk along the walls in a state of panic, as though he were afraid to display his back. He had the face of a youth without any hair round it. His upper lip was drawn upwards on the left side, and showed a long canine tooth, while at the same time his right eye shot a sharp glance like a poisonous arrow.

He glided along the wall to the apse, where an image was erected. It was a likeness of the timid man himself, representing him exactly even to his clothes.

“Is the priest there?” the mad Emperor whispered, for it was he.

No answer followed.

“Priest, dear priest, I am so frightened. Are you not coming?”

A sacrificial priest came forward, fell on his knee before the Emperor, and worshipped him.

“Jupiter, Optimus, Maximus, Latiaris, frighten away thy foes.”

“Have I foes, then? Yes, and that is what frightens me. Do you believe that I am God?”

“Thou art.”

“Let us then have thunder, to frighten my foes.”

The priest beat upon a kettledrum, and the echoes rolled through the temple.

The Emperor laughed, so that all his teeth were visible.

“Priest!” he cried as he seated himself on his throne, “now you shall sacrifice to me.”

The priest kindled a fire on the little altar before the madman.

The Emperor said, “The scent is good. Now I am the mightiest in heaven and on earth. I rule over living and dead; I cast into Tartarus and lift into Elysium. How mighty I am! I tame the waves of the sea, and command the storm to cease: I hold sway over the planets in their courses; I myself have created chaos, and the human race lie at my feet, from the primeval forests of Britain to the sources of the Nile, which I alone have discovered. I have made my favourite horse consul, and the people have acknowledged his consulship. Priest! Worship me! Or do you forget who I am? No, I am I, and I shall always worship myself in my own image. Caius Caesar Caligula, I honour thee, Lord of the world, how I honour myself! Jupiter Latiaris Caligula!”

He fell before the image on his knee.

“Some one is coming,” said the priest warningly.

“Kill him.”

“It is the tribune, Cassius Chaeraea!”

“Frighten him away.”

“Chaeraea does not let himself be frightened.”

The tribune came in fearlessly and without ceremony.

“Caius Caesar, your wife is dead.”

“All the better,” answered the Emperor.

“They have dashed your only child against a wall.”

“Ah, how pleasant!” laughed the madman.

“And now you are to die.”

“No, I cannot. I am immortal.”

“I wait for you outside. It shall not take place here.”

“Creep away, ant! My foot is too great to reach thy littleness.”

Then a sound of singing rose from the basement of the temple, or from the earth; they were children’s voices.

The Emperor was again alarmed, and crept under his chair.

Chaeraea, who had waited at the door, lost patience.

“Dog! are you coming? Or shall I strike you dead here?”

“Chaeraea,” whimpered the Emperor, “do not kill me! I will kiss your foot.”

“Then kiss it now when I trample you to death.”

The gigantic tribune threw the chair to one side, leapt on the madman and crushed his windpipe beneath his heel; the tongue, protruded from his jaws, seemed to be spitting abuse even in death.

The Wild Beast had three heads; the name of the second was Claudius. He played dice with his friend Caius Silius, who was famous for his wealth and his beauty.

“Follow the game,” hissed Caesar.

“I am following it,” answered his friend.

“No, you are absent-minded. Where were you last night?”

“I was in the Suburra.”

“You should not go to the Suburra; you should stay with me.”

“Follow the game.”

“I am following it; but what are the stakes we are playing for?”

“You are playing for your life.”

“And you, Caesar?”

“I am also playing for your life.”

“And if you lose?” asked Silius.

“Then you will lose your life.”

The Emperor knocked with the dice-box on the table. His secretary Narcissus came in.

“Give me writing materials, Narcissus. The antidote for snake-bites is yew-tree resin....”

“And the antidote to hemlock?”

“Against that there is no antidote.”

“Follow the game, or I shall be angry.”

“No, you cannot be angry!” answered Silius.

“Yes, that is true,—I cannot! I only said so!”

Messalina, the Emperor’s wife, had entered.

“Why is Silius sitting here and playing,” she asked, “when he should accompany me to the theatre?”

“He is compelled,” answered the Emperor.

“Wretch! what rights have you over him?”

“He is my slave; all are slaves of the Lord of the world. Therefore Rome is the most democratic of all States, for all its citizens are equal—equal before Men and God.”

“He is your slave, but he is my husband,” said Messalina.

“Your husband! Why, you are married to me.”

“What does that matter?”

“Do you go and marry without asking my permission?”

“Yes, why not?”

“You are certainly droll, Messalina! And I pardon you. Go, my children, and amuse yourselves. Narcissus will play with me.”

When the Emperor was left alone with Narcissus, his expression changed.

“Follow them, Narcissus!” he hissed. “Take Locusta with you, and give them the poison. Then I shall marry Agrippina.”

But when Silius and the Empress had gone without, Silius asked innocently: “Have you yourself prepared the mushrooms which he will eat this evening?”

“I have not done it myself, but Locusta has, and she understands her business.”

The name of the third head of the Wild Beast was Nero. He was Agrippina’s worthy son, had poisoned his half-brother Britannicus, murdered his mother, kicked his wife to death, and committed unnatural crime. He falsified the coinage and plundered the temples. He made an artistic tour to Greece, where he first appeared as a public singer and brought eight hundred wreaths home, then as a charioteer, in which capacity he upset everything, but received the prize because nobody dared to refuse it to him.

To such a depth had Rome and Greece sunk. Claudius was an angel compared to this monster; but he also received apotheosis.

To-day the Emperor had returned home from his artistic tour, and found his capital in flames. Since, in his fits of intoxication, he had so often raged against his old-fashioned Rome, with its narrow streets, and had on various occasions expressed the wish that fire might break out at all its corners, he came under the suspicion of having set it in flames.

He sat in his palace on the Esquiline in a great columned hall, and feasted his eyes on the magnificent conflagration. It was a marble hall with only a few articles of furniture, because the Emperor feared they might afford lurking-places for murderers. But in the background of the hall was a strong gilded iron grating, behind which could be caught a glimpse of two yellow-brown lions from Libya. These the Emperor called his “cats.”

At the door of the grating stood two slaves, Pallas and Alexander, and watched every change in the Emperor’s face.

“He smiles,” whispered Pallas; “then it is all over with us. Brother, we shall meet again. Pray for me and give me the kiss of peace.”

“The Lord shall deliver thee from all evil, and preserve thee for His heavenly kingdom. This mortal must put on immortality, and this corruptible, incorruption.”

The red face of the Emperor, red with wine and the light of the conflagration, began to assume a look of attention, and it could be seen from his eyes and ears that he was listening. Did he hear perhaps how the masses of people whispered their suspicions of the “incendiary”?

“Pallas!” he roared, “Rome is burning!”

The slave remained speechless from fright.

“Pallas! Are you deaf?”

No answer.

“Pallas! Are you dumb? They say down there that I have fired the town, but I have not. Run out in the streets and spread about the report that the Christians have done it.”

“No, I will not!” answered the slave.

Nero believed that his ears had deceived him.

“Do you not know,” he said, “that the Christians are magicians, and live like rats in the catacombs, and that all Rome is undermined by them? I have thought of making the Tiber flow in to drown them, or of opening the walls of the cloacas and submerging the catacombs in filth. Their Sibylline books have prophesied the fall of Rome, though they use the name ‘Babylon.’ See, now the Capitol takes fire. Pallas, run out, and say the Christians have done it.”

“That I will not do,” answered Pallas loud and clearly, “because it is not true.”

“This time my ears have not deceived me,” roared the Emperor rising. “You will not go into the town; then go in through the grating-door and play with my lions.”

He opened the door, and pushed Pallas into the fore-court of the lions.

“Alexander!” said Pallas, “I have prayed you to be firm and courageous!”

“I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the latter day He shall raise me from the earth.”

“What is that you are saying?” said the Emperor, and pulled a cord, which opened the second door to the lions.

“Alexander, go out into the town, and spread the report that the Christians have set Rome on fire.”

“No,” answered Alexander, “for I am a Christian.”

“What is a Christian?”

“God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son that whosoever believeth on Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

“Will you not perish? Have I not the power to destroy you?”

“You have no power over me, except it be given from above.”

“He does not fear death. Lentulus! bring fire here; I will set fire to your clothes, that we may see if you can burn, I will set your hair, your beard, your nails on fire; but we will first soak you in oil and naphtha, in pitch and sulphur. Then we will see whether you have an everlasting life. Lentulus!”

Lentulus rushed in: “Emperor! The city is in an uproar! Fly!”

“Must I fly? First bring fire!”

“Spain has revolted, and chosen Galba as Emperor.”

“Galba! Eheu! fugaces, Postume … Galba! Well, then, let us fly, but whither?”

“Through the catacombs, sire.”

“No! the Christians live there, and they will kill me.”

“They kill no one,” said Alexander.

“Not even their enemies?”

“They pray for their enemies.”

“Then they are mad! All the better!”

The Christians were assembled in one of the crypts of the catacombs. “The Capitol is burning; that is the heathen’s Zion,” said Alexander.

“The Lord of Hosts avenges his destroyed Jerusalem.”

“Say not ‘avenges,’ say ‘punishes.’”

“Someone is coming down the passage.”

“Is it a brother?”

“No, he makes no obeisance before the cross.”

“Then it is an executioner.”

The Emperor appeared in rags, dirty, with a handkerchief tied round his forehead. As he approached the Christians, whom in their white cloaks he took for Greeks, he became quiet and resolved to bargain with them.

“Are you Greeks?”

“Here is neither Jew nor Greek, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free, but all are brothers in Christ! Welcome, brother!”

“It is the Wild Beast,” said Alexander.

The Emperor now recognised his escaped slave, and in his terror fell on his knees.

“Kill me not! I am a poor stone-cutter, who has lost his way. Show me the way out, whether right or left.”

“Do you know me?” asked Alexander.

“Alexander!” answered the Emperor.

“He whom you wished to burn. It is I!”

“Mercy! Kill me not!”

“Stand up, Caesar! Thy life is in God’s hand.”

“Do I find mercy?”

“You shall have a guide.”

“Say whether right or left; then I can help myself.”

“Keep to the left.”

“And if you lie.”

“I cannot lie! Do you see, that is the difference.”

“Why do you not lie? I should have done so.”

“Keep to the left.”

The Emperor believed him, and went. But after going some steps, he stood still and turned round.

“Out upon you, slaves! Now I shall help myself.”

It was a terribly stormy night, when Nero, accompanied by the boy Sporus, and a few slaves, reached the estate of his freedman Phaon. Phaon did not dare to receive him, but advised him to hide in a clay-pit. But the Emperor did not wish to creep into the earth, but sprang into a pond, when he heard the pursuers approaching, and remained standing in the water. From this place he heard those who were going by seeking him, say that he was condemned to be flogged to death. Then, after some hesitation, he thrust a dagger into his breast.

His nurse Acte, who had also been his paramour, buried him in a garden on Monte Pincio. The Romans loved him after his death, and brought flowers to his grave. But the Christians saw in him the Wild Beast and the Antichrist of the Apocalypse.