At this moment the door was suddenly opened, and the soldiers that had just arrived came in. They had been sent by the Senate to search for the fugitive and bring him back to Rome. The centurion who commanded these men, advanced into the room, and looked at the fallen emperor, as he lay upon the floor, weltering in his blood. He had been commanded to bring the prisoner to the city, if possible, alive; and he accordingly ordered the soldiers to come to the dying man and endeavor to stanch his wounds and save him. But it was too late. Nero stared at them as they advanced to take hold of him, with a wild and frightful expression of countenance, which shocked all who saw him, and in the midst of this agony of terror, he sank down and died.
The news of the tyrant's death spread with the utmost rapidity in all directions. A courier immediately set off for the north to carry tidings of the event to Galba. People flocked from all quarters to the house of Phaon to gaze on the lifeless body, and to exult in the monster's death. The people of the city gave themselves up to the wildest and most extravagant joy. They put on caps such as were worn by manumitted slaves when first obtaining their freedom, and roamed about the city expressing in every possible way the exultation they felt at their deliverance, and breaking down and destroying the statues of Nero wherever they could find them.
Galba's march to Rome.
Seventy-three.
In the mean time Galba was steadily advancing on the way to Rome. In due time he made his entry into the city, and embassadors came to him there from all parts of the Roman world to acknowledge him as the reigning emperor. At this time he was seventy-three years old. So that the number seventy-three of which the oracle had warned Nero to beware, denoted the age of his rival and enemy,—not his own.
The End.
Footnotes
[B] By some it has been thought that the song which Britannicus sung on this occasion was one which he had learned before—one perhaps which he had accidentally seen or heard, and which had attracted his attention on account of its adaptedness to his own case; and there is a song of Ennius, an ancient writer, which is sometimes cited as the one he sang on this occasion. Others say that the performance was original and extemporaneous; that the young prince, excited by his wrongs, and by the peculiar circumstances of the occasion, gave utterance to his own feelings in words which suggested themselves to him on the spot. To do this would require, of course great intellectual readiness and ability,—but the difficulty of such a performance would be somewhat diminished by the fact, that the ancient poetry was wholly different from that of modern times, being marked only by a measured cadence, unconnected with rhyme.