The letters, and all the latest writings, of Seneca vibrate with terror. They are full of the thought of death, and doubtless he lived with the sense of such grim satisfaction as could be derived from the thought that if life became too unbearable he could end it. ‘And death,’ he said to himself, ‘means only “not to be.”’[71] And all this was felt even in Nero’s ‘golden quinquennium’! Men boasted of the happiness of the days in which their lot was cast, but they knew that under their vineyards burnt the fires of a volcano. Common conversation, home life, dinner parties, literature, philosophy, virtue, wealth, were all dangerous. Neither retirement nor obscurity always availed to save a man. The only remedy was to learn endurance; not to fill too prominent a place; not to display too much ability; never to speak in public without a digression in flattery of the Emperor; to pretend cheerfulness though one felt anguish; and to thank the tyrant for the deadliest injuries, like the rich knight who thanked Gaius when he had killed his son. Now and then some painful incident, like the bitumen which floats up from the Dead Sea depths, showed the foulness which lay beneath the film of civilisation. Such, for instance, was the fate of Octavius Sagitta, the tribune of the people, and one of Nero’s intimates, who was banished for the brutal murder of a married lady who had played fast and loose with his affections. Such, too, was the savage attack made upon Seneca in the Senate by the aged informer Publius Suillius, whose sneers and denunciations caused bitter anguish to the unhappy philosopher. But Nero recked little of such scenes; and as time went on, he fell wholly under the influence which, even more than that of Tigellinus, developed his worst impulses. He became more and more enslaved by the fatal fascinations of the wife of Otho. Poppæa had every charm and every gift except that of virtue. From the moment that she had riveted the wandering fancy of Nero at the banquet of her husband, she felt sure that her succession to the splendour of an Augusta was only a matter of time. There were obstacles in the way. Otho loved her to distraction. Nero still admired him, and did not think of putting him to death. Nor did he venture to defy public opinion by taking her from her husband, as Augustus had taken Livia from the elder Tiberius. Octavia was Empress, and as the daughter of Claudius, she had a hold on the affections of the people. As the niece of Germanicus, she was dear to the soldiers. Her life was blameless, and Agrippina was anxious to protect her, though she knew that it was impossible to make Nero a faithful husband. Octavia retained the distinction of a consort, if she had none of the love which was a wife’s due. Poppæa determined to surmount these difficulties, and she it was who gradually goaded her imperial lover to the worst crimes which disgrace his name. Through two murders and two divorces she waded her way to a miserable throne.