“Augustus!” answered the freedman, “I am not ungrateful for favors shown me, but my assistance at this hour is unavailing. I am but one man, a stranger, a Greek, and all Rome, all Italy, the entire world, have risen against you.”
“I must fly. They will allow me to earn my livelihood on the stage. Of what value to any man is my life?”
“My lord, in what value have you held the lives of the thousands that you have taken? Each life cut off has raised against you a hundred enemies. All will pursue, like a pack of hounds baying for the blood of him who murdered their kinsfolk. Even now I passed one—Lucius Ælius Lamia,—and he stayed me to inquire where you might be found. In his hand he held an unsheathed sword.”
Nero shrieked out; then looked timidly about him, terrified at the sound of his own voice.
“Let us hide. Disguise me. Get me a horse. I cannot run, I am too fat; besides, I have on my felt slippers only.”
Phaon spoke to one of his slaves, and the man left.
“Master,” said the freedman, “Do not deceive yourself. There is no escape. Prepare to die as a man. Slay yourself. It is not hard to die. Better so fall than get into the hands of implacable enemies.”
“I cannot. I have not the courage. I will do it only when everything fails. I have many theatrical wigs. I can paint my face.”
“Sire! the people are so wont to see your face besmeared with color, that they are less likely to recognize a face bleached to tallow.”
“I have a broad-brimmed fisherman’s hat. I wear it against becoming freckled. That will shade my face. Find me an ample cloak. Here, at length, comes Sporus.”