Nero had been angered beyond measure by the failure of both his attempts upon the life of his brother, but he had also been a little terrified. A feeling of the eternal sanctity of the moral law had scarcely ever found a place in his slight and frivolous mind; but he was by no means free from superstition. He did not believe seriously in the gods; but he believed more or less in omens, and for a time he wavered in the dreadful purpose of committing his earliest unpardonable crime.
But he could not waver long. Britannicus was rapidly approaching his fifteenth year. It was evident that he was also developing new powers. He was already nearly as tall as Nero, and while Nero’s early beauty was beginning to fade the face of Britannicus became constantly nobler. All this Nero observed with deepening rancour, and to this was added a secret terror. He began to fear lest the Prætorians should find out their mistake in rejecting this princely boy for one who, in spite of his small accomplishments, was so far his inferior. He never visited Agrippina without noticing that in some way she regarded Britannicus, if not as the mainstay of her hopes, at least as the ultimate resource of her vengeance and despair.
But it was Sophonius Tigellinus who had the chief hand in goading Nero to the final consummation of his guilt. The Emperor was not by nature sanguinary; his cruelty was only developed amid the rank growth of his other vices.
He was planning with Tigellinus a banquet of unusual splendour which was to be held at the Feralia—the Roman All Souls’ Day, a festival in honour of the dead—on February 7.
‘You will have to give another banquet, Cæsar,’ said Tigellinus, ‘on the Ides (February 13).’
‘Because that day is the fifteenth birthday of Britannicus; and I presume that then you will let him assume the manly toga.’
‘You are always dragging in the name of Britannicus,’ said Nero. ‘I hate it, and I hate him.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the Prætorian; ‘I should say that you love him very much. Who can tell how soon he may be your successor?’
‘My successor?’ answered Nero, scowling. ‘What do you mean?’