CHAPTER XLVI
THE DEATH OF OCTAVIA
‘O gioia! O ineffabile allegrezza!
O vita intera d’amore e di pace!
O senza brama sicura ricchezza!’
Dante, Paradiso, xxvii. 7-9.
In one sense all the people of Rome were the friends of Octavia; in another she was nearly friendless. For the multitudes of every rank were degraded by selfishness and cowed by terror. So long as they were personally untouched by the orgies and crimes of the Emperor, and so long as he was supported by the swords of the Prætorians, they neither wished nor dared to interfere. Rome lay helpless under the bonds of the tyranny which her own vices had riveted. Nero might indeed be murdered, but in what respect would the Empire be better off? There was no Cæsar left. If Nero died, there seemed to be no prospect for Rome except the horrors of civil war with all its attendant pillage, massacre, and crime. It seemed better to endure Nero’s infamies than to see the Empire torn to pieces. After all, were not many of the senators, of the generals, of the aristocracy, capable of becoming as licentious and as cruel as he was, and would not their elevation make their vices loom as monstrous as his?
They rejoiced, therefore, that the popular tumult had been so speedily repressed, and they steeped their consciences in immoral acquiescence. The bad plunged themselves yet more shamelessly into vice, and manœuvred to make their vices known as a passport to imperial favour. As for the better Romans, they tried to bury themselves in such obscurity as would shelter them from notice; or they sought solace in the refined egotism of the Epicureans; or inured themselves to the chances of death and ruin by assuming the haughty self-dependence of the later Stoics. Pætus Thrasea and his friends took refuge in the belief that it would be an absurdity to attempt the impossible. The heart of Seneca was torn with misgivings; but was not he himself in peril? What could he do? He had never spoken out against any one of Nero’s crimes, or lifted a finger to prevent them. Lucan longed to overwhelm the Emperor with invective; but he could only brood in silence over his wrongs, and gloomily await the day of vengeance.
From none of these did Octavia receive any help. If they compassionated her misery, no murmur of pity reached her ears. But from those who were now her fellow-Christians she received both help and consolation. Pomponia, whose gentle influence moved fearlessly with halcyon wings over the turbid abyss of crime, exerted herself to add comfort to the dreary retreat of the Empress in the volcanic isle. With her strong good sense she made arrangements for Octavia’s comfort. She obtained the leave of her husband, Aulus Plautius, to despatch some of her slaves to Pandataria the very day that the decree of Octavia’s banishment was published, with directions to secure for her as fitting a home as was possible, and to take with them such things as might conduce to her well-being. In this she was secretly aided by Acte. The beautiful and generous girl sought an interview with Octavia before she left Campania, fell at her knees, and begged the daughter of Claudius to pardon the wrong which in earlier days her beauty had inflicted. ‘I was but a slave once,’ she said; ‘nor did I know the truths which have since been taught me. I have forsaken the past. Empress, you will forgive me, and accept such little services as I can render?’
‘Rise, Acte!’ said Octavia, with tender dignity. ‘I know that thy heart was innocent, and that no wiles of thine were spread to catch Nero’s love. I forgive thee. Who am I, in my misery, that I should condemn thee?’
She raised the weeping girl from the ground, and gently kissed her. ‘Do not weep any more,’ she said. ‘Acte, it has been told me that thou art a Christian. Nay, start not, and see how much I trust thee. I am a Christian, too.’