WHEN depressed with distrust, when oppressed with suspicion, and when burdened with discontent, the heart looks to the future, from which it hopes to drink the nectar of peace. But the golden chalice from which Agrippina had hoped to drink the blessings of peace had become a brazen cup filled with intense and increasing bitterness. Over twelve months had elapsed since her beloved son Nero had reached the manly age; and each month had brought with it fresh disaster. So undermined had her courage become that, when alone, her soul, in terrible silence, listened and awaited the next calamity without a respiration.
She trembled at the movements of the wings of her imagination, at the fall of the withered leaves of her hope, at the overflowing drops from the fountain of her grief. The parched lips of her soul craved a cool spring from which they might drink of peaceful strength. She longed for a strong arm that would help her carry her burdens, for a confiding friend who would direct her thoughts and actions, and for a tender heart that would reciprocate her affection. For these things did she strenuously seek as a grand oak in the dark earth gropes for strength and sustenance.
At times, so enshrouded was she by her danger that the sun and moon appeared to vanish, the world to disappear, and the stars to melt away. Through the profound darkness of this oblivion a beautiful face would sometimes glow and deceive her. It seemed the face of hope. On close scrutiny she would see around this face vipers and snakes. It was the head of Medusa. With her blood congealed by terror, Agrippina would try to close the eyes of her imagination, but the face of the horrible gorgon would still be before her, turning into stones both her thoughts and her actions.
During the year her son Nero had married Julia, the daughter of Livilla, and had left the small house on the Palatine Hill, moving into the palace that belonged to his uncle Drusus, on the Esquiline. Her second son, Drusus, had assumed the manly robes, and having married Aemelia Lepida, a descendant of an illustrious family, lived in a palace on the Quirinal. Agrippina, her oldest daughter, had been given in marriage to a brutal and villanous man, Cneius Domitius. The bitter seeds of hatred that Sejanus had sown in the hearts of her sons had now matured, and the brothers had become violent enemies. With infernal art the malicious minister had even succeeded in breaking through the reserve with which Agrippina had received him.
Tormented by the discord engendered in her family and by the sufferings of her friends, the poor woman had become dangerously ill. She was now convalescing, and was permitted to receive short visits from her friends.
Always alert, and never losing a chance to advance his cause, Sejanus was the first to visit the convalescent. When he called, Agrippina was resting upon a cathedra in the atrium. Her face was pale and thin, her eyes were still piercing and melancholy. Although weakened by her illness, she still bore herself proudly. She languidly returned the greeting of the minister.
“Have I the honor to be the first among thy friends to call on thee, O woman favored of the gods?”
“I have no friends,” she coldly replied.
“Truly thou hast suffered!” he exclaimed.
“Ay,” she slowly replied.