‘For life, with all it yields of joy and woe,
And hope and fear—believe the aged friend—
Is just a chance of the prize of learning love;
How love might be, hath been indeed, and is;
And that we hold thenceforth to the uttermost
Such prize, despite the envy of the world.’
Browning, A Death in the Desert.
It was New Year’s Day in Rome. The day was kept as a universal holiday. Everybody aimed at cheerfulness, and abstained from any word of evil omen. Quarrels were suspended; calumny was hushed. Fires were kindled on every side, and fed with scented woods and leaves of odorous saffron. The gilded fretwork of every temple-roof glimmered with twinkling reflections of the sacred flames. All the people were clad in white, and went in procession to the Capitol. The lictors were provided with new fasces; the magistrates were clad in new purple, and assumed, for the first time, their curule chairs of ivory. The white oxen of Clitumnus were led for sacrifice to the altar of Jupiter, their necks wreathed with garlands. Friends exchanged presents, which, even when they were of trifling value, yet served to show that they had not forgotten to express their love. Among presents from Octavia, and Titus, and Pudens, and Pomponia, and other friends, Britannicus, who had now recovered, was greeted by Epictetus with the customary gift of gilded dates—called strenæ, whence the French étrennes—and a little honey in its snowy comb. These the poor lame boy had bought, with such copper coins as he had been able to save, at the little market for such trifles near the Porta Mugionis; and he had not forgotten to bring a few sprigs of vervain, good-naturedly given to him as an augury of blessing by one of the priests at the half-forgotten shrine of Vacuna, on the Sacred Way. But Britannicus had received more splendid presents than these. Agrippina had given him a double-branched silver candelabrum, up the shaft of which crept a wild-cat towards two unsuspecting birds perched on either dish above. But when he showed it to Octavia she shuddered. To her fancy it seemed as if Nero were the wild-cat, and herself and her brother the harmless birds.
Never had Britannicus and Octavia been more sad than in the days which followed Nero’s frustrated plots to assassinate his brother. They knew that further attempts would not be long delayed. On February 13 Britannicus would be fifteen years old, and it would be impossible to withhold from him the manly toga. But he felt sure that the sword was dangling by a hair over his neck, and that he would not long be suffered to live.
And thus, in the dawn of youth, he found himself in a situation so terrible that it has shaken the fortitude of many a full-grown man. Even the iron nerves of Cromwell were affected by the daily danger of assassination; and now Britannicus never sat down to a meal without dread of treachery, and never went to bed without a misgiving as to whether that sleep would not be his last. From the latter terror Titus relieved him as much as he could, by nightly drawing his own couch across the door. Onesimus had told Titus that if any deed of darkness were in immediate contemplation he would be almost sure to hear of it from Acte. Yet, in spite of all, the poor boy’s mind might have been unhinged by the secret and manifold dangers with which the hatred of the Emperor surrounded him, had it not been for the lessons which he had heard from the humble followers of the gospel. Never could he forget the awful expansion and dilatation of spirit which had accompanied the emotion he had experienced at the Christian gathering. At that moment he had felt a foretaste of immortality.