“Among Jucundus’ school friends,” he said, “are the sons of kings from the East. Their parents, who are friendly to Rome, consider the crushing of Parthia absolutely vital to the East. These youngsters are more Roman than the Romans themselves, and Jucundus will soon be the same. In the Senate’s Eastern committee the question has been brought up many times. As soon as Corbulo has achieved peace in Armenia, Rome will have support there and Parthia will be caught between the two.”
“How can you think about war now when Rome is suffering a disaster?” I cried. “Three whole sections of the city lie in ruins and six others are still burning. Ancient landmarks have vanished in the flames. The Vesta temple has been burned to the ground, the tabularium too, with all the law tablets. Rebuilding Rome alone will take many years and will cost such an enormous amount that I can’t even imagine it. How can you think that a war is even possible at all?”
“Just because of that,” my father said thoughtfully. “I neither see visions nor have revelations, although I have begun to have such premon- itory dreams that I must think about their contents. But dreams are dreams. Speaking logically, I think the rebuilding of Rome is going to mean heavy taxation in the provinces. This will arouse discontent, for the wealthy and the merchants usually let the people pay the taxes. When this discontent spreads, the government will be blamed. According to the greatest statesmanship, a war is the best way to provide an outlet for internal discontent. And when the war has once started, there is always money to keep it going.
“You yourself know,” he went on, “that in many quarters there are complaints that Rome has grown weak and that her warlike virtues have vanished. It is true that the young laugh at the virtues of their forefathers and perform parodies of Livy’s historical tales. But they still have wolf blood in their veins.”
“Nero does not want war,” I protested. “He was even prepared to give up Britain. Artistic laurels are all he strives for.”
“A ruler is always forced to follow the will of the people when necessary, otherwise he won’t stay long on his throne,” said my father. “Of course the people don’t want war, but bread and games in the circus. But underneath it all, powerful forces lie hidden who think they’ll do well out of war. Never before in history have such huge fortunes been made as are being made by individuals today. Freed slaves live more sumptuously than noblemen in Rome, for no traditions bind them to care for the State more than themselves. You don’t yet know, Minutus, what enormous power money has when it is combined with more money to reach its own objectives.
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“Talking of money,” he said suddenly, “there are fortunately some things which are worth more. You have your mother’s wooden goblet in safekeeping, I suppose?”
I felt violently agitated, for during my quarrel with Claudia I had completely forgotten about the magic goblet. As far as I knew, my house had long since been lost and the goblet with it. I rose at once.
“My dear father,” I said, “you are more drunk than you know. It would be best if we forgot your fantasies. Go to bed now, for I must go back to my duties. You’re not the only one being attacked by furies tonight.”
In the mawkish way drunkards have, my father appealed to me not to forget his presentiments when he was dead, which would not be long now. I left his house and headed toward Aventine, skirting the edges of the fire. The heat forced me to cross the bridge into the Jewish section of the city and then have myself rowed back across farther up-river. Everyone who owned a boat was making a fortune ferrying refugees across the Tiber.
To my surprise, the Aventine slope on the river side seemed still quite untouched. Several times I went astray in the clouds of smoke, and among other things I saw that the Moon temple and its surroundings were nothing but smoking ruins. But just beside the fire area, my own house stood unscathed. There was no other explanation except that the wind, which elsewhere had had such a devastating effect, seemed to have kept the fire away from the top of Aventine although there was not even a proper fire-break. Only a few houses had been deliberately demolished.
The eighth morning of the fire dawned on the desolation. Hundreds of people lay tightly packed in my garden—men, women and children. Even the empty water-tanks were full of sleeping people. Taking long strides over them, I reached the house, into which no one had dared to go although the doors were wide open.
I rushed to my room, found the locked chest and at the bottom of it the wooden goblet in its silk cloth. When I took it in my hands, I was seized in my exhaustion with superstitious fear, as if I really were holding a miracle-performing object. I was struck by the terrible thought that the secret goblet of the Goddess of Fortune, for which my father’s freedmen in Antioch had also shown such respect, had protected my house from the fire. But then I could not think anymore, and with the goblet in my hand, I sank onto my bed and at once fell sound asleep.
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