“Ay, mother. ’Twas a day that I shall never forget.”
“’Twas the seventh day before the calends of June,” said Agrippina. “Caius Coelius and Lucius Pomponius were consuls. In that magnificent procession, led by the Conscript Fathers, there was one spectacle at which the people, carried away by their enthusiasm, kissed their hands and wept tears of joy. For, my children, more splendid than all the gold or silver, ay, more splendid than all the glories of this world, there, borne aloft, were the standards that had been recaptured by the valor of thine august father. Ye were with him on that supremely glorious day. But, my Nero, didst thou learn aught else this morning?”
“Ay; on my way home I went into the Temple of Concord,” replied Nero. “The emperor was there. At last he has broken his silence. Seeing the Consuls, out of respect for the dead Drusus, sitting with the other Senators on the ordinary benches, he upbraided them for lack of dignity.”
“Did he appear sad?” asked Agrippina.
“Nay,” answered the eldest son. “When some Senators shed tears, he censured them. Without a sigh and with his usual hesitation he made an address.—Oh for thy memory, brother Drusus!—His speech was apologetic and yet imperious. I forget the words.”
“My sons,” warned the mother, “be not embittered when ye see the splendid funeral of Drusus. Mark ye, the emperor will make of that a grand display. Silently regard the pageant. Let not thy words reflect thy thoughts during the ceremony.”
“Sejanus angered me this morning,” exclaimed Nero.
“What said he?” asked Agrippina, anxiously.
“He compared the virtues of my father with the vices of Drusus,” explained Nero. “He said that the emperor would try to show that the commonwealth had suffered a greater blow than when my father died. So did he stir me that I cursed—”
“Nay, nay, my son!” cried Agrippina. “Curse no one before that man!”