his villa outside the Nomentan Gate. After a
while they mounted horses, and, covering Nero's head with a mantle, they
galloped off toward the edge of the city. The night was growing pale.
But on the streets there was a movement which showed the exceptional
nature of the time. Soldiers, now singly and now in small groups, were
scattered through the city. Not far from the camp Caesar's horse sprang
aside suddenly at sight of a corpse. The mantle slipped from his head;
a soldier recognized Nero, and, confused by the unexpected meeting,
gave the military salute. While passing the pretorian camp, they heard
thundering shouts in honor of Galba. Nero understood at last that the
hour of death was near. Terror and reproaches of conscience seized him.
He declared that he saw darkness in front of him in the form of a black
cloud. From that cloud came forth faces in which he saw his mother, his
wife, and his brother. His teeth were chattering from fright; still his
soul of a comedian found a kind of charm in the horror of the moment.
To be absolute lord of the earth and lose all things, seemed to him the
height of tragedy; and faithful to himself, he played the first role to
the end. A fever for quotations took possession of him, and a passionate
wish that those present should preserve them for posterity. At moments
he said that he wished to die, and called for Spiculus, the most skilled
of all gladiators in killing. At moments he declaimed, "Mother, wife,
father, call me to death!" Flashes of hope rose in him, however, from
time to time,--hope vain and childish. He knew that he was going to
death, and still he did not believe it.

They found the Nomentan Gate open. Going farther, they passed near
Ostrianum, where Peter had taught and baptized. At daybreak they reached
Phaon's villa.

There the freedmen hid from him no longer the fact that it was time to
die. He gave command then to dig a grave, and lay on the ground so that
they might take accurate measurement. At sight of the earth thrown
up, however, terror seized him. His fat face became pale, and on his
forehead sweat stood like drops of dew in the morning. He delayed. In a
voice at once abject and theatrical, he declared that the hour had not
come yet; then he began again to quote. At last he begged them to
burn his body. "What an artist is perishing!" repeated he, as if in
amazement.

Meanwhile Phaon's messenger arrived with the announcement that the
Senate had issued the