Then he summoned Seneca, and declared that with Acratus and Secundus Carinas, he sent him to the Italian and all other provinces for money, which he commanded him to obtain from cities, villages, famous temples,—in a word, from every place where it was possible to find money, or from which they could force it. But Seneca, who saw that Cæsar was confiding to him a work of plunder, sacrilege, and robbery, refused straightway.
“I must go to the country, lord,” said he, “and await death, for I am old and my nerves are sick.”
Seneca’s Iberian nerves were stronger than Chilos; they were not sick, perhaps, but in general his health was bad, for he seemed like a shadow, and recently his hair had grown white altogether.
Nero, too, when he looked at him, thought that he would not have to wait long for the man’s death, and answered,—
“I will not expose thee to a journey if thou art ill, but through affection I wish to keep thee near me. Instead of going to the country, then, thou wilt stay in thy own house, and not leave it.”
Then he laughed, and said, “If I send Acratus and Carinas by themselves, it will be like sending wolves for sheep. Whom shall I set above them?”
“Me, lord,” said Domitius Afer.
“No! I have no wish to draw on Rome the wrath of Mercury, whom ye would put to shame with your villainy. I need some stoic like Seneca, or like my new friend, the philosopher Chilo.”
Then he looked around, and asked,—
“But what has happened to Chilo?”