THE sun had lowered toward its setting, and seemed to dissolve in the red of the evening. The spectacle was finished. Crowds were leaving the amphitheatre and pouring out to the city through the passages called vomitoria. Only Augustians delayed; they were waiting for the stream of people to pass. They had all left their seats and assembled at the podium, in which Cæsar appeared again to hear praises. Though the spectators had not spared plaudits at the end of the song, Nero was not satisfied; he had looked for enthusiasm touching on frenzy. In vain did hymns of praise sound in his ears; in vain did vestals kiss his “divine” hand, and while doing so Rubria bent till her reddish hair touched his breast. Nero was not satisfied, and could not hide the fact. He was astonished and also disturbed because Petronius was silent. Some flattering and pointed word from his mouth would have been a great consolation at that moment. Unable at last to restrain himself, Cæsar beckoned to the arbiter.
“Speak,” said he, when Petronius entered the podium.
“I am silent,” answered Petronius, coldly, “for I cannot find words. Thou hast surpassed thyself.”
“So it seemed to me too; but still this people—”
“Canst thou expect mongrels to appreciate poetry?”
“But thou too hast noticed that they have not thanked me as I deserve.”
“Because thou hast chosen a bad moment.”
“How?”
“When men’s brains are filled with the odor of blood, they cannot listen attentively.”
“Ah, those Christians!” replied Nero, clenching his fists. “They burned Rome, and injure me now in addition. What new punishment shall I invent for them?”