Piso was no flatterer, and did not like the command, but after a moment’s hesitation he quoted Horace’s lines--
‘How great thy debt to Nero’s race, O Rome, let red Metaurus say, Slain Hasdrubal, and Victory’s grace, First granted on that glorious day.’
‘That is a compliment to my ancestors, not to me,’ said Nero; ‘but I will let you off, for, though I am Rex, I am not Tyrannus.’
‘Now, Petronius, you are a poet, so I am going to give you a hard command. I will give you five minutes, and you are to produce a line which shall read the same backwards and forwards.’
‘Nevertheless, I require the impossibility, or you will have to drink by way of fine at least nine cyathi of neat Falernian.’
With humble apologies, Petronius seized his tablets, and before the five minutes had expired he read the line--
‘Your line is not Latin, and does not make sense,’ said Nero. ‘I should have told you to make me a compliment instead of our grave Licinianus. But now, Senecio, I order you to quote the epitaph which best expresses your view of life.’
Senecio obeyed, and his selection was very characteristic.
‘Eat, drink, enjoy thyself: the rest is nothing.’[55]
‘What would our small Epictetus say to that?’ whispered Titus in the ear of Britannicus.
Other guests achieved the tasks appointed them with more or less success, and they awaited with some curiosity the injunction which Nero would lay on Britannicus. Britannicus did not feel much anxiety about it, for he supposed it would be of the same playful and frivolous character as the rest. He did not imagine that his brother would single him out at a genial gathering to put upon him a public insult by ordering him to do anything which would cause a blush. He was therefore struck with amazement when Nero said:
‘And now, Britannicus, get up, walk into the middle of the room, and there sing us a song.’
A low and scarcely audible murmur of disapproval ran round the room. As it was the Saturnalitian festival, the slaves were not only present as spectators of these social games, but were allowed by custom to indulge in an almost unlimited licence of satire even against their masters. But that a prince of the blood should be called upon to sing--to sing in public, before a number of noble Romans, and even in the presence of slaves, was regarded as an indignity of the deadliest description. It was a violation of immemorial custom. It was a demand entirely outrageous. The hot blood rushed to the cheeks of Britannicus, and suffused his brow and neck. An indignant refusal sprang to his lips. If Pudens had been near he would at least have glanced at him to see what he would advise; but, to his deep grief, Pudens had been removed to a post in the camp, and his place had been taken by a tribune named Julius Pollio, whom Britannicus distrusted at a glance. The pause was becoming seriously awkward, and many of the guests betrayed uneasiness, when Britannicus heard Titus, who sat next to him, whisper in a low voice, ‘It is a shame; but you had better try, for fear worse should happen.’
