There the freedmen hid from him no longer the fact that it was time to die. He gave command then to dig a grave, and lay on the ground so that they might take accurate measurement. At sight of the earth thrown up, however, terror seized him. His fat face became pale, and on his forehead sweat stood like drops of dew in the morning. He delayed. In a voice at once abject and theatrical, he declared that the hour had not come yet; then he began again to quote. At last he begged them to burn his body. “What an artist is perishing!” repeated he, as if in amazement.
Meanwhile Phaon’s messenger arrived with the announcement that the Senate had issued the sentence that the “parricide” was to be punished according to ancient custom.
“What is the ancient custom?” asked Nero, with whitened lips.
“They will fix thy neck in a fork, flog thee to death, and hurl thy body into the Tiber,” answered Epaphroditus, abruptly.
Nero drew aside the robe from his breast.
“It is time, then!” said he, looking into the sky. And he repeated once more, “What an artist is perishing!”
At that moment the tramp of a horse was heard. That was the centurion coming with soldiers for the head of Ahenobarbus.
“Hurry!” cried the freedmen.
Nero placed the knife to his neck, but pushed it only timidly. It was clear that he would never have courage to thrust it in. Epaphroditus pushed his hand suddenly,—the knife sank to the handle. Nero’s eyes turned in his head, terrible, immense, frightened.
“I bring thee life!” cried the centurion, entering.