The Silver Chalice (69 page)

“It has been a lesson indeed, O Caesar,” said Basil. “One I shall never forget.”

“And now,” cried the Emperor, “summon Petronius. There is something I am going to say and I want him to hear it.”

The entry of Petronius was preceded by the bringing in of the bust that Basil had made of the Emperor. It was placed on a small table in one corner of the room. Nero looked at it and then waved a triumphant hand.

“My friend Petronius,” he said to the new arrival, “on you I rely in matters that are close to my heart. You are my never-failing mentor and my patient guide. I have something now to say to you. It has been my rule to defer to your judgment, to wait for you to speak. Now for once, Petronius, I shall speak first. Observe! I proclaim this likeness of me, which this young artist from the East has made, a masterpiece! It has power and fidelity. It shows me, not as a divinity on a high pedestal, but as a man—a living man, Petronius, who loves and hates and strives and suffers. Look at it well. I defy you to think otherwise of it.”

Petronius stationed himself in front of the bust and studied it from every angle. After several moments of silent absorption, during which
the outwardly confident Nero fidgeted behind him and gave every indication of being secretly nervous, the mentor and guide turned.

“You are right,” he declared. “Your eyes, O Caesar, have picked out all the admirable qualities in this work. It is not perfect. It has flaws both in conception and execution. But it is remarkable for a reason that has swayed my judgment as much as it did yours.” He took another look, his lips pursed reflectively. “I consider this important because it may be the start of a new trend. It has a novelty of approach as well as fidelity to life, as you so astutely said. These qualities are not to be found in the conventional efforts of other sculptors. Yes, O Caesar, we may have before us the first example of a new school of sculpture.”

“I knew it!” cried the Emperor. He was delighted beyond bounds to have his judgment endorsed. In fact, he seemed almost ready to dance in the exhilaration this caused him. “I saw all these things in it from the start. I, with my own eyes. I knew it to be real, new, worth while.” He waved an excited arm at Basil, who had thus been the means of earning him so much gratification. “Artist, you are to remain near me. This gift of yours must be developed. You must be given every chance. Your work will help me to show the world that Rome is becoming the real center of culture, the capital of artistic achievement. You shall have rooms in the household wing. Also, you must have a pension.” He burst into loud laughter. “That would have been a sad thing to overlook. Even artists must live. You must begin at once on more studies of me. I want to see myself in many aspects. I want to become acquainted with myself.” He nodded his head excitedly. “I am going to make you work hard. Ah, yes, Artist, I shall prove myself a strict but a fair taskmaster.”

“The whip is needed on the back of the race horse,” remarked Petronius, “and an insistent hand on the shoulder of the artist.”

“He shall have the insistent hand.” Nero beamed at his protégé. “My own personal discovery! My little genius! I am fond of you already.”

For three weeks Basil rode on the crest of the wave. He was conscious all the time, nevertheless, that each additional day he was kept at court might mean he would be absent from his wife’s side when she would need his aid. He fretted and fumed but kept his concern in the privacy
of his own mind, for it was quite obvious that the Emperor was not only delighted with his work but took pleasure in his company and had no thought of parting with him.

He did four more studies of Nero, two of them full-length, and the Emperor was lavish in his praise of them all. A high and airy room had been given him for his work, with plenty of light from the north. His new master proved so exacting that Basil had no time for anything but work. Twice a day the royal train would come for sittings, Nero beaming with anticipation and followed by a motley company of special favorites, servants, musicians, and drummers.

“My little genius,” he said once, “it is my desire to encourage you in every way. You must repay me by doing such great things that the whole world will say, ‘Nero was right. He found this obscure artist. He saw the elements of greatness in him.’ ”

Another time he said: “We are both young, we are artists, we have aspirations, we suffer, we strive; and we need all the encouragement we can get. We must help each other. I shall draw inspiration from these likenesses you are making of me. And I shall inspire you by singing to you with my golden voice while you work.”

The studio was filled as a result of this with noise and confusion all the time. Picking with skilled fingers at the strings of a lute, the ruler of the world would sing in his high sweet voice while Basil’s hands labored with the damp clay. The musicians never ceased their efforts; the drummers pounded out their rhythms unremittingly. Jugglers would be summoned to perform for Caesar while he sat. Food would be brought in and wine served. The flutists would lay aside their pipes for brief moments to enjoy a morsel of the food or to pull thirstily at a flagon of wine, but the drummers seemed able to eat and drink without suspending their efforts at all. Once Nero summoned a corps of dancers to amuse him, and they did in pantomime the
Bellicrepa Saltatio
, which was based on the rape of the Sabine women. Basil found it hard to concentrate while hairy dancers panted and sweated and postured.

On one occasion Tigellinus came to the room, followed by a decayed specimen of a man with a furtive eye. He engaged Nero in a whispered conversation and, when the Emperor disputed with him rather violently, he called upon his creature to supply evidence on the point at issue. The man did so without daring to raise his glance above the level of the royal knees, and Nero listened with an impatience that began finally to subside. At the finish of the colloquy he said to Tigellinus in an audible
voice: “So be it. I give in to you. But it is hard, Tigellinus. The man was a friend. I liked him.”

Coming back to the bench on which he had been posing, the Emperor showed signs of some perturbation of spirit. He frowned and changed his position constantly and seemed thoroughly unhappy. Finally he burst out with an explanation: “Pity the lot of one born to rule! It has been reported to me that a friend of mine, one in whom I had reposed every confidence, has been secretly working against me. I have been compelled to agree to what Tigellinus proposes. My friend must die.” He paused and suddenly clapped his hands together with a suggestion of satisfaction. “I must forestall the too zealous Tigellinus. I shall send word to my friend to open his veins and so bring things to an ending before Tigellinus can seize him. Yes, that is the proper solution of this difficulty. I feel better about it already.”

Secretaries would run in and out at all times, and the Emperor would groan over the documents they brought and bewail the hardness of his lot. Sometimes he would wave the documents aside and refuse to read them. Basil found himself wondering how the ship of state continued to sail its course with so many delays. At the end of each sitting Caesar would depart with much shaking of his head and many groans over the hardness of the life of those who wear crowns. “How can I go on?” he would cry. “Ah, my little genius, pity me! I am an unhappy man!”

Basil did not realize how enamored he had become of his own success until the evening when a general named Flavius, who had returned from a successful campaign in the East, was the guest of honor at Caesar’s table. The victor proved to be a spare soldier of middle years with a face completely lacking in imagination and urbanity. He partook of little food but drank with practiced steadiness, and it was clear that he was astounded at the magnificence of the banquet.

Basil and Septimus were sitting together this evening, and the latter shook his head over the attitude of the returned warrior. “What they say about Flavius must be true,” he muttered. “They say he is a dull fellow, a disciplinarian and a martinet, and nothing else. It is even being said that he had simpletons fighting against him and so could not help winning.”

As soon as the long and elaborate meal was over Nero sang for his guests without much urging, accompanying himself on a small lute. He was in good form, with a control that never failed him. There was, it is
perhaps needless to state, a thunder of applause at the finish. The royal troubadour accepted this loud tribute with a pleased nod of his oversized head and even condescended to the use of the phrase that paid singers employed. “My lords,” he said with a low bow, “the artist thanks you for your attention.”

He laid aside his lute then and began to talk in a voice that gained excitement as he went on, his remarks being addressed directly to the victorious general. Flavius listened with no trace of expression on his face, which the suns of the East had baked to the color of earthenware.

Basil could not tell what was being said. He was beginning to have the first smatterings of knowledge of the Latin tongue, but his mastery of it was not equal to the rapidity of the words that came from the royal lips. After a while he turned to Septimus and asked what it was all about.

“The Emperor is telling Flavius that Rome must now achieve a new kind of greatness. He says that the world has been conquered and so there is no longer any chance for generals to add to the glory of the empire. It remains for him, the Emperor no less, to lead the way to a new kind of conquest; the subjugation of the arts and the centering of all creative efforts here in Rome. It is all a lot of weak pap and rancid onion oil. That poor Flavius, with his stupid little mind, cannot make head or tail of all the fine phrases our Caesar is spinning about him.”

“The general looks puzzled,” commented Basil.

“I too am puzzled,” acknowledged Septimus. “Should ideas like this be advanced in public by the ruler of the world? What will the armies in the field think?”

The Emperor’s fervor mounted as his discourse went on and on. Once he turned to the corner where Basil and his companion sat and pointed a finger. For a few moments all eyes in the place were fixed upon them.

“What did he say?” asked Basil when the flurry of interest in them had come to an end.

“I am not sure I should tell you,” answered Septimus. “I suspect you of a weakness for flattery. Still, you might as well hear it from me as from others. It seems that our Caesar conceives himself the source of inspiration that will raise up in Rome a galaxy—his own word—a galaxy of great artists who will excel the achievements of the early Greeks. He says you are his first discovery. He pointed you out to the company and predicted that someday you would be ranked with the great men of the past.”

Basil said nothing. The praise that had been lavished on his work was, he acknowledged to himself, most gratifying. For several moments he
sat in an exultant glow. “Why should not Caesar be right?” he thought. He had been demonstrating to them that there was in his hands a touch, at least, of genius. Why should it not bring him recognition and acclaim?

Then he brought himself up with a sharp tug on the reins of his common sense. He was allowing himself to be carried away by the first words of public praise. Even if it were his intention to continue indefinitely at the imperial court, it would be dangerous to swallow good opinions so avidly; and it had never been his purpose to consider this more than a brief interlude. He had other work to do. “Now that I know how susceptible I am to praise,” he thought, “I must be on my guard. And it is very clear that I should get away from here before my vanity plays me worse tricks. I must be on my way.”

He nudged the elbow of Septimus. “I can see that I have been here too long,” he whispered. “What can I do about leaving? Must I have Nero’s consent?”

Septimus had been looking rather grim, but at this he brightened up. “I thought for a moment you were lost,” he said. “I could see a gleam in your eye and I said to myself, ‘He is not going to be able to resist this bait and he will be drawn into all this tug of war and seesawing for the royal favor.’ But now I see you have a stiffer spine than that.” He gave his head a shake of warning. “It would be folly to let the Emperor know what you are planning. He is so heated up himself with his visions of a new glory that he would think you guilty of treachery, if not of treason.”

“Does that mean I must stay here indefinitely?” asked Basil. “Am I a prisoner?”

“In a sense. A prisoner of your own success. Still,” whispered his companion, “there is always the hole under the palace wall. That is your only hope of getting away now. But I would not advise using it unless you are sure you can leave Rome immediately.”

While Basil labored and Nero sang, the timbers of Simon’s tower were rising in a section of the palace gardens that faced the main portico. The few odd moments the former had to himself were spent watching the upspringing of these ominous walls.

His first impression was one of amazement at the speed and efficiency with which everything was done. The engineer in charge, a cool young
Roman, seemed to know everything. He spoke very seldom, but when he did, things happened rapidly. Basil liked to watch the bringing in of the stout tree trunks for the base of the structure. They were dragged by four or six horses harnessed side by side, raising a cloud of dust like a charge of chariots. This would be followed by a speedy unhooking operation, and the claws of the compound pulleys would seize the logs and toss them up like straws to the places designed for them. It was exciting to see all this accomplished without raising a bead of sweat on the brow of a single slave, how the stays were swung aloft, and the rails and the oblique struts that were known as dragon-beams.

He became so much interested that he inspected the tools the workmen used and found them new and infinitely superior to anything he had ever known. The great saws had crossed teeth to prevent binding in the wood, and this was something very new indeed. The simple boxes called planes, with straps for the hand, could be run across a plank with great ease and leave the surface as smooth as marble. He doubted if Jesus had worked in Nazareth with tools as fine as these.