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.All I wanted was to make people happy.I never wanted to be an emperor.A great artist, that’s all.And I was a great artist – am.’‘With no audience.I leave you now, Caesar.’‘You leave me? You?’‘The games are finished.The slaves sweep fruitpeel and nutshells out of the empty arena.I have to go.The Senate wants my head.’‘Your head, yours? Who’s master here? What is the Senate that it should want—Does it want my head too? Does it?’‘Get out of Rome is my advice.Now.’‘Why does the palace seem so empty? I can hear my voice echoing.Where is everybody?’Tigellinus grinned sadly and said: ‘Vale.’ He left quickly.‘Where are you all? Lepidus! Myrtilla! Phaon!’Phaon, a freedman, neither insolent nor deferential, came in, saying: ‘Caesar called?’‘Oh, thank heaven you’re still with me.Where are the others?’‘Gone.And it’s time for us to go.The villa.Only four miles.There aren’t enough slaves to carry a litter.I might find a couple of horses.’‘Leave Rome? My Rome? My great gift to the world? Oh, very well.My cloak, Phaon, my riding boots.’‘Caesar knows where they are.I have my own arrangements to make.’ He went out.Nero cried to an invisible auditorium:‘Phaon! Phaon! I’ll have your head for this!’In the Senate the leader of the house had given the latest news.‘Vindex, the legate of Gaul, has declared his allegiance to only the Senate and the people of Rome.The legate of Spain, Servius Sulpicius Galba, has made a similar declaration.The Emperor is left without allegiance, either civil or military.The revolt has begun in the provinces.Galba, old as he is, stands as the only reasonable imperial candidate.But first things first.Is it resolved by this august body that the present incumbent of the imperial chair be declared a public enemy and an outlaw and most meet for apprehension, trial and execution?’ Piso should have been there, it would have been a great moment for him.But Piso was not anywhere.Nero was very much in the scarcely used villa four miles out of the city, breaking jars and tearing curtains.His only audience was Phaon, who sat on a stool, chewed nuts, and watched and listened with no visible reaction as his master ran up and down, calling for people long dead, screaming.Then Nero said: ‘They won’t dream of looking in the slaves’ quarters, will they? They’ll find this place empty, then they’ll leave.Isn’t that so, Phaon? Isn’t it? Show me where the slaves’ quarters are, Phaon.Quickly, quickly.’Phaon got up at his leisure.His sharp ear caught a sound outside, some way away, horses.‘Come with me then, take a torch.’He went out, not too hurriedly, and his master followed eagerly, stumbling, till they came to a dark and dusty area beyond the kitchens.Those kitchens had cooked no food in a long time.‘Safe here then, you think, Phaon? Quite safe?’ His torch showed him a wall-sconce.He fitted the torch in.He did not like all these shadows.He did not like Phaon’s shaking his head and taking a dagger from his kirtle.He handed it to his master, with a slight bow.‘I do that? Never, never.It’s a coward’s act, Phaon.’ But Phaon insisted.‘Show me, then.Show me how to do it.You do it first, Phaon, then I’ll follow.’ But Phaon wrapped Nero’s fist around the hilt and guided it towards his throat.So great an artist and he had to die.No, not so great: this was not the time for self-deception.If there had been the chance to learn, and to learn humbly.A martyr to the art in a sense: testifying to the future that one had to give up all for art and he had not been permitted to give up all.As he began to choke on his blood he saw a page of perfect sapphics not now to be written.He heard them sung in some phoenix version of his own voice, but the voice did not get beyond the first line and a half.Up to the caesura.The arriving squadron was loud about the house.There is irony in the fact that Paul’s death came after that of Nero.He arrived from Spain in an interregnum, but the law still ran, like a mad horse beyond curbing.He was unaware of this.Christianity was a religio licita.The ship came in at Puteoli, a grainship that had docking precedence.It was unladed of its bales and passengers.A couple of port officials asked the ship’s master to show them the manifest of these latter.‘Leave men from Spain.Private passengers.Who’s this Paul?’‘Roman citizen.’‘That doesn’t look like a Roman name.’‘He’s just known as Paul.A Christian preacher.Made a lot of converts in Spain.Including some of these leave men.Why, anything wrong?’‘How long have you been away from Italy?’‘I’ve been doing the run from the Spanish mainland to the Balearics for three years.Why?’‘Christianity’s a proscribed religion.Punishable by death.Where is this Paul?’The ship’s master pointed to a very brown, very bald, very lean but quite old man in a brown habit, shouldering his pack and preparing to leave the dock area.The port official who had spoken spoke again:‘And he doesn’t know either?’‘No more than I did.What are you going to do?’‘We have our orders.’ A maniple was summoned; it moved in to arrest Paul; he could not understand why.He tried to resist, but strong arms grasped him.He was taken to the offices of the quaestor in Neapolis.Paul spoke first.‘I seem to be under arrest.Is it permitted to ask why?’‘I suppose you’re entitled to an explanation
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