glass amphoræ, on which were these words: “Falernian wine of a hundred leaves, made under the consulship of Opimius.”[XXXV_75] [D] The consuls and the Roman nobles almost forgot, in the voluptuousness of the splendid repast, that the executioner of Britannicus and Burrhus, the crowned tiger, was doubtless thinking at that very moment of taking some of the heads then present. A funereal spectacle soon aroused their dormant fears.
An officer of the palace presented himself at the door of the banqueting hall. He advanced slowly, followed by two slaves, who laid on the table an object covered with a winding-sheet. “Pressing occupations,” said the imperial messenger, “prevent Cæsar from sharing with you the hospitality of Seba; but he thinks of you, and sends you a testimony of his remembrance.”
“Long live Cæsar!” cry the consuls, the freed-slave, and some few trembling voices. The officer retires. The veil which shrouds Nero’s present from every eye is removed, and all perceive a silver skeleton, of terrifying truthfulness, and which, by its admirable mechanism, proclaims artist to be one of those Greeks who have come to Rome to seek fortune and celebrity.[XXXV_76]
This episode engrossed the thoughts of the greater part of the guests, and the old senator, Lucius Vafra, could not help saying, with a sigh, to his neighbour, Virginius Rufus, one of the consuls of the preceding year: “Fear the Greeks: fear this disastrous present!”[XXXV_77]
But the hot wine which was being served,[XXXV_78] and the healths which succeeded without interruption, drove the sinistrous presage from their minds; and, moreover, the present of the emperor was nowise contrary to the manners of the epoch, and the thought of death would only have enlivened the repast, if it had been presented by any other than Nero.
At first healths were drunk in the Greek fashion,—that is, beginning by the most distinguished personages, he who drank bowed and said: “I wish you every kind of prosperity;” or simply: “I salute you.” In pronouncing these words, he who drank the health took only a part of the wine contained in the cup, and sent the remainder to the guest he had just designated.[XXXV_79]
Many craters were then emptied in honour of the mistress of the house (dominæ); neither were the illustrious dead nor absent friends forgotten. The formula was nearly the same for all: “To your healths,” said the symposiarch, “to our own, to that also of the friend whom we cherish.”[XXXV_80]
Sometimes Drusillus, still fascinated with that dulcet poetry of the Greeks with which, when young, he had stored his mind, would take up the harmonious cadences of Horace, and thus personate, as it were, those divine chanters of Attica who have immortalised themselves by celebrating love, wine, and pleasure.
One of his extempore strains, while sipping the sparkling liquor from his cup, was:—