Darkness and Dawn; Or, Scenes in the Days of Nero. An Historic TaleFarrar, F. W. (Frederic William)
History
Darkness and Dawn; Or, Scenes in the Days of Nero. An Historic Tale
Farrar, F. W. (Frederic William)
Rome -- History -- Nero, 54-68 -- Fiction
For Britannicus had scarcely finished his draught when with one
wild look he clutched the arm of Titus, and then, half supported
by Clemens, sank speechless and breathless from his seat. It seemed
as if in one instant the swift poison had pervaded all his limbs.
His last conscious thought had been for another. Titus remembered
with undying gratitude, that the clutch upon his arm had saved his
life. He felt sure that with one and the same flash of intuition
Britannicus had recognised that the draught was poisoned, and had
tried to prevent Titus from drinking it.
But when the guests turned their eyes to the table where the young
prince was sitting they saw the terror-stricken look on the faces
of Titus and the other boys, and Flavius Clemens supporting in his
arms the white and convulsed form of the son of Claudius. At that
spectacle many of them leapt from their couches, and even began to
fly in different directions. Who could tell what charges of plots
might be founded on such an incident, and who might be involved in
them? But those who were more familiar with the mysteries of the
Court, though they had started to their feet, stood rooted in their
places with their eyes fixed on Nero, waiting for some sign to guide
or reassure them.
And then Nero showed the consummate coolness of villainy which
could hardly have been expected from so young a murderer. He was
short-sighted, but he could very well guess what had happened,
and he had his little speech ready prepared. Indeed, he had been
repeating it over to himself while he vainly endeavoured to get up
a conversation with his mother or his wife. Putting his emerald to
his eye,[63] he raised himself on one elbow from his soft mass of
cushions, and said, amid the dead silence--
‘Oh, I see what is the matter. My brother Britannicus, poor boy,
has been afflicted from childhood with the comitial disease. His
epileptic fit will soon be over, and all his senses will return. Pray
resume your places, my friends. Do not let the mirth of the banquet
be disturbed by this little accident.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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