Читать книгу Tiberius the Tyrant - John Charles Tarver - Страница 7

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In the hottest weather of the year 14 A.D., a hush fell upon the streets of old Rome, as the news rapidly circulated that her foremost citizen was dead, and that the man whose name had spelled peace and prosperity for the whole civilized world was no longer at the head of affairs. Few men were still living who could remember any rule but his; for forty-five years he had controlled without serious opposition the destinies of an Empire which stretched from the Euphrates to the English Channel; the men who had taken an active part in the events before the reins of government dropped into his skilful hands were now but few, and if they ever spoke of the days which immediately preceded his reign, it was to contrast fourteen years of anarchy with nearly half a century of order. Here and there in the palaces of the few old Roman families that had survived the revolutions of the middle of the last century the good old times were bewailed, when the spoils of the world were distributed between the members of a few princely houses theoretically associated in administering the affairs of only one Italian town, and bitter epigrams were circulated at the expense of the monarch who posed as the first man of a free city; but the vast body of the population had long forgotten the days of a liberty in whose privileges they had never shared, while they had suffered from its concomitant licence; the streets were no longer the scene of furious fights between the retainers of great noblemen, the citizens regularly received their supplies of corn, holidays were frequent and the amusements of the public provided for on a liberal scale; the Prince himself had been the foremost to enjoy all that delighted the hearts of his fellow citizens.

As the fierceness of the hot Italian sun diminished, and the streets began to fill, the praises of the dead man passed from mouth to mouth; one would remember the humility with which he had pressed the claims of his chosen candidates for public office, and the courtesy with which he had asked for a vote; another would recall him studiously fulfilling the sacred duty of a patron, and pleading in the Forum on behalf of a humble client; yet another would describe him standing at his own door once a year dressed in white begging for alms to bestow on the needy; others would speak of the modesty of his household, the model of an ancient Roman family where Livia his consort herself superintended the weaving of her maids; nor would the gayer sort forget his interest in the shows of the circus, or fail to tell stories of his modest bets, and somewhat liberal jokes; the scholar would speak of his simple entertainments in which the poet and the historian shared in the conversation on terms of equality with their host; those of more serious mind would dwell on his scrupulous attention to the ordinances of religion, his restoration of temples and shrines and their various cults; while the tender-hearted would deplore his private sorrows, the premature deaths that had snatched away his grandsons, the scandals that had bereft his home of his daughter and granddaughter; nor would they fail to bewail the fact that the only possible successor to his heritage and his power was an alien in blood.

As the days wore on the symptoms of the public sorrow increased, and the authorities began to fear that the order of the funeral might be marred by some such frantic outburst as had attended the obsequies of the first great Cæsar, whose body had been seized by an excited mob and burned in the public market place; regulations were issued to ensure such order as the Prince himself would have commanded, and to prevent the licences into which an orgy of sorrow might degenerate. Day by day was reported the slow progress of the procession from the small country house in Campania in which he had died to the gates of the city; here the body had been guarded and carried by soldiers, there by the knights, the second order in the State, and lastly the Senators themselves were waiting to receive it, and conduct it on the final stage of its journey into Rome.

The day came at length when the long train of mourners filed through the narrow streets, at its head the ivory bier draped in purple, behind it the effigy of the dead man, and a stately series of similar effigies leading back through the great Cæsar himself to mythical Æneas and Anchises and the goddess Venus; there were no deep-voiced bells, no dull minute guns to express and intensify the public sorrow, but the silence was broken by the shrieks of dishevelled women and the monotonous blare of hoarse trumpets. After the images came the chief mourner, a tall and stately man with bowed head, the Commander-in-chief of the Roman armies, descended from the noblest blood of ancient Rome; behind him walked members of the family, high officials, statesmen, senators, the representatives of kings and cities. Principalities and powers were all assembled to do honour to the dead. The heat of the season had rendered it necessary to conduct the ceremony by night, and the flare of torches fell fitfully on the procession and on the faces of the spectators. At length the tedious ritual was completed, the wine, the oil and the spices were thrown on the pyre, thrice was the dead man called by name, and the silence was broken by no answer; the chief mourner applied the torch with averted face, the crackling flames rose to the sky, the soldiers ran round the burning pile, an eagle sped heavenwards through the smoke; when the fire had at length died down, and wine had been sprinkled on the ashes, a cry arose of Farewell, and yet again Farewell; then the mourners departed to their homes, and the Roman people dispersed to magnify the events of the last few hours, and to remember portents: stars had fallen from their places in the sky, the earth had been shaken, rivers had reversed their course, the kindly rain had been turned into blood, and even small domestic catastrophes were now known to have had their significance; a Senator had seen the soul of the deceased rise to heaven from the midst of the flames, and the credulous were comforted by reflecting that the Genius of Augustus still watched over the destinies of the Roman people.

Meanwhile in the palaces of the Senators one question of supreme interest was debated: What was to be the new order of things? and, indeed, was there to be a new order?

It was fortunate for the destinies of civilized humanity that a successor was ready at hand to take up the reins of government which had dropped from the tired hands of Augustus, and that the question of succession was not left to be settled by debate in the Senate, or the result of a civil war. Tiberius was on the spot; he had been for all practical purposes his stepfather’s colleague for ten years; he was acting Commander-in-chief of the Roman armies; he was of ripe age and ripe experience; his personal knowledge of the Empire was almost co-extensive with its limits; he does not seem to have visited Africa or Egypt, but he had served or commanded armies, and conducted negotiations over the whole area between the sources of the Euphrates and the North Sea. There was no living Roman with equal knowledge of affairs, or of superior rank; his succession was inevitable, if there was to be a successor to Augustus.

The life of Tiberius is from every point of view profoundly interesting; it began in the middle of the great revolution which eventually substituted the rule of one man for the rule of the Senate, and which left the city of Rome the capital rather than the mistress of an Empire; it ended after nearly fourscore years, during which the constitution of that Empire was so firmly established that the incapacity of individual rulers, and the mutual rivalries of aspirants to the chief power, though sometimes resulting in civil war, failed to shake its stability; it coincided with a great step in the forward march of civilization which has left its impress upon all subsequent history. If the political events which occurred during the life of Tiberius are of supreme interest, his personal history is no less attractive to the student of character, and of the strange vicissitudes which may occur in the life of a human being; not the least of the many contradictions in this life is the fact that the man, who is called by the great German historian, Mommsen, “the ablest of the Roman Emperors,” should have become the recognized type of all that is most evil in a ruler, and left a name which is seldom mentioned without an expression of detestation.