THE Imperator was draping the folds of his robe when I entered. He received me cordially. “Look, Cartaphilus, is this perfect?”

“It is the fold of the statue of a god carved by a master.”

The guests were coming, generally by twos or threes. Nero continued to fix the folds, now and then raising his eyes to notice the effect it produced on the visitors, who seemed entranced.

His arm tired, he seated himself.

We spoke of various matters. The conversation drifted finally to architecture which interested him greatly.

“Alas,” the Emperor remarked moodily, “the Romans prefer to keep their old wooden shanties instead of building magnificent structures of stone and marble. Rome… Rome…the city of lumber! I love stone, Cartaphilus. Eternity lingers in stone. If I had it my way, I would burn Rome and rebuild it…make it a thing of perfect beauty.”

He drank deeply out of his cup as if to drown his regret, and smacked his heavy lips.

Sporus walked out, slim, graceful, cat-like. He was not drunk, but the intoxication of the Imperator had communicated itself to him. His eyes were like torches. At the door, he motioned to three soldiers to follow him. The Imperator did not notice his departure. Poppaea feigned sleepiness to disguise her boredom. The guests were becoming noisy. Their conversation rose and fell like the din of giant insects. Some couples upon the floor interlaced in amorous postures. A few sang. I was weary, and should have gladly taken leave, but the Emperor continued to speak of architecture, of beauty, and of beastly landlords, interested solely in their investments.

“What is this—the dawn?” one of the guests asked. A few laughed. “Dawn! Dawn!”

“But it is very light,” another one suggested. “The wine of Nero has the power of changing night into day,” someone remarked.

I looked at the open door. “Your Majesty,” I said calmly, “fate has granted your wish. Rome is burning!”

Nero glared at me. I pointed to the columns of smoke embracing the city like serpents. Flames were rising from the seven hills.

“I am lost, Cartaphilus!”

“Fire! Fire!” several guests shouted, rushing out. Poppaea opened her eyes. Nero ran out. I followed him, slowly, unperturbed. I knew that whatever happened to the others, I was immune. For the first time since Jesus had hurled his imprecation against me, I felt that my predicament was not without its benefits. I could be dignified in a crisis that frightened an Emperor.

Poppaea touched my arm. “You are not afraid, Cartaphilus?” she whispered.

“No.”

“Nero is afraid.”

“Are you?”

“I love fire. Like passion it devours.”

The wind, which had set in toward the evening, fanned the fire. The tongues of flame united into gigantic scarlet masses. People rushed to and fro, shouting and wailing.

Nero turned to me. “Is it right for an Emperor to run, Cartaphilus?”

“He can conquer himself even if he cannot conquer the elements,” I answered.

With trembling hands Nero fixed the folds of his garment—and, mastering his impulse to flee, ordered one of the slaves to bring him his harp. “Is not fire beautiful?” he exclaimed, but his voice quivered. “Shall we not celebrate in its honor?”

His teeth chattered.

‘How,’ I thought, ‘could man survive amid the hostile forces of nature without a touch of madness or delusion of grandeur?’

Sporus reappeared, pale, disheveled, his hand bandaged.

“Recite the burning of Troy, Sporus, while I play.”

People running in terror, stopped a moment to listen to the music.

“The monster!” a woman shouted, “He plays the harp! He is roasting our children alive while he plays!”

I do not know whether Nero heard the remarks.

“Cartaphilus, I am immortal now. The world shall remember me by this gesture.”

‘True,’ I thought to myself, ‘the human mind remembers the picturesque, not the essential.’

Hungry for admiration, the Imperator turned to Sporus. He noticed for the first time the boy’s hand.

“Sporus, look at me!” he ordered. The boy obeyed.

“You?”

“You said you wished to consign Rome to the flames– —”

Nero boxed his ears.

Poppaea whispered, “Sporus.”

For the first time the boy seemed to her more than merely the Emperor’s plaything.

Nero, now very serious, listened to the distant grumble from the populace.

“This may mean revolution, Cartaphilus,” he whispered.

An idea struck me. “No, Your Majesty, not if you take my advice.”

“Speak!”

“We should not be overheard, Your Majesty.”

We walked aside.

“Your Majesty, when dealing with angry crowds all logic is futile– —”

“Yes, Cartaphilus.”

“Also their attention should be distracted, should it not?”

“Yes.”

“The Nazarenes– —”

“I have heard of them.”

“Have secret meetings, Your Majesty.”

“That is against the law!”

“To them Rome is secondary to the world, and the Emperor inferior to their God. They deny the Emperor’s divinity. Men who deny the divinity of the Emperor are capable of any iniquity…”

Nero looked at me long.

“The Nazarenes have set fire to Rome!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Their leaders shall be thrown to the lions! Cartaphilus, you are my friend. I shall make you the Governor of a province.”

“What province is comparable to the friendship of Nero?”

NERO would never forgive me: I had seen him weak. Poppaea could never forget that I had sought no repetition of our ferocious amour. If Nero discovered the singularity of my fate I would not fare well. He would put me to the test. Perhaps it would amuse him to see me swing from a rope for years, without dying; or be flogged for months, and still breathe; or be cut to bits, retaining consciousness. Nero was subtle and insatiable in his curiosity! Or perhaps, angry that I could outlive and outlove him, it would enter his diabolical mind to mutilate me to deprive me of pleasure. I could not face eternity as a eunuch…

The seven hills began to stifle me. I decided to disappear.

I stood at the crossroads and asked: ‘Whither?’ I turned to the east; I turned to the west; to the north, to the south. Whither? Every path was open to me, but I was like a man whose feet are nailed to the ground. At each extremity I saw an enormous figure; squatting, his face between his palms,—Ennui, ubiquitous and everlasting.

It is not enough to live. One must find a purpose, a reason for existence.

What did I desire? What purpose could I make my own? How should I conquer the terrible god who squatted, his face between his hands, at the end of each road?

“Whither?”

A man passed by on a brown donkey. I asked him where the road to my right led to. “All roads lead to Rome,” he smiled and passed on. Was his remark a warning, or an oracle? What did it mean? Should I return to the Eternal City?

What god was entrusted with my well-being? Reason, not faith, was my guidance. That was the cause of my quarrel with Jesus and his disciples. I would not—perhaps could not—believe. I must investigate, weigh, reject…waiting for time and space to expose, hidden like some black pearl, Falsehood, the Kernel of Truth.

Even the miracle of my own existence did not make me believe in the supernatural. Somewhere there was a mystery; but I refused to worship it. I refused to call it God, or the Son of God, merely because it baffled my reason.

Waving my fist in the air, I exclaimed: “Jesus, did you imagine you could frighten me into belief? Did you imagine you could persuade me by some trick of hypnotism, by the subtle power of certain words? My defiance shall outlive your curse! I am he who does not believe! I am he who accepts no truth as final!”