‘What ails the gay actor?’ asked Nero. ‘Is it something more about these Christians?’
‘It is,’ said the actor. ‘Spare them, Emperor. Spare them, I entreat you. I have ascertained that they are perfectly innocent. Cæsar has no more virtuous subjects.’
‘Virtue?’ said Nero. ‘It is three-fourths humbug, and the other fourth hypocrisy. Give me pleasure; give me art. These fanatics would quench all joy in the world. They would kill Venus and starve Bacchus. I hate them.’
‘Would Cæsar slay the innocent?’
‘Innocent? They are anything but innocent. They are conspirators, and sorcerers, and murderers, and haters of mankind.’
‘Oh, Cæsar,’ exclaimed the actor, in despair. ‘I, too, believed this; but these are only the lies of the multitude.’
‘At any rate, they are gloomy and pestilent fanatics. Why should Aliturus care for the wretches who worship a man whom Pilatus crucified? What is their execrable superstition to Rome’s favourite pantomime? I am to be king of the East, and these Galileans set up another king, whom they call Christus. It is flat sedition! Besides, how am I to appease the populace, if I do not find them some victims?’
‘You may yet find the true criminals, Cæsar; it may be that they are nearer your own person than these poor Christians.’
‘Don’t let Tigellinus hear you say that, or you may yet know what the tunica molesta is like, and may leave a trail of burning pitch on the sand of the amphitheatre! Come, Aliturus, this is tedious. Enough of it. I prefer your dancing.’
At this moment Poppæa entered, and the young man withdrew. As he passed down the corridor the slaves were surprised to see the bright darling of the populace wringing his hands and muttering ‘Too late! too late!’