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“You ought to live at home in Rome, Flaccus, where….”

“Yes, what are you doing now in Rome?”

“Caesar is Caesar; he conquers the world, and unites all the highest functions, even the priestly, in his own person. I have nothing against it, but they say he is aiming at his own deification.”

“Why not? All gods have first been heroes, and many gods have not been so great as Caesar. Romulus was certainly no giant, though he had the luck to come first, as someone must. Now he is a god, has a temple, and they sacrifice to him.”

“It is probably a lie, like everything else.”

“Probably.” “Yes, I have heard another legend of the founding of Rome by Aeneas’ son Ascanius, who fled from Troy; and I intend to take it as the starting-point of my great poem….”

“You mean the Aeneid, of which I have heard mention.”

“Yes, the Aeneid.”

“Is it difficult to write poetry?”

“No; one follows good patterns. Hitherto Theocritus has been mine, but now I shall go to Father Homer himself.”

“By Heracles! Now there you will be undisturbed–so long, that is, as Maecenas sends you the sesterces regularly.”

“Yes, he does! But how do you get along?”

“My father, a freedman, toils as quaestor, and will find me a place.”

“Have you no interests, no passions, no ambitions?” “No; what should I do with them? ‘Nihil admirari.’ That is my motto. If there are gods who guide the destinies of men and nations, why should I interfere and wear myself out in a useless struggle? Think of Demosthenes, who for thirty years delivered speeches against the Macedonian, and warned his countrymen, who would not listen to him! The gods were with the Macedonian, and condemned Hellas to be overthrown. Demosthenes was imprisoned. Comically enough, he was accused of having been bribed by the same Macedonian. That was, of course, a lie. This patriot who sacrificed himself for the salvation of his fatherland, who believed he was fighting on the gods’ side, had to take poison, and fell, fighting against the gods! Vestigia terrent!”

During their conversation, the sun had gone down, and now in the twilight beacons were visible flaming on Aegina, on Salamis, by Phaleros, in the Piraeus, and finally on the Acropolis. The murmurs from the city became louder till they rose to one immense paean of joy. Men came down the streets, and brought their wives and children with them, some on foot, others riding and driving. The worthy innkeeper Agathon was aroused, and went out into the highway to learn the cause of the confusion. The two students had gone on the inn roof to look out. But they surmised danger for foreigners like themselves, and, alarmed by the ever louder shouting, descended again, and concealed themselves in the wine-press. At last Agathon’s voice was heard: “Caesar is assassinated! Death to the Romans! Freedom for Hellas!”

Such was the news. The garden of the inn filled with people, wine flowed, and shouts of joy resounded, varied by sarcastic remarks on the passing Romans who were fleeing northwards from the town in order to reach the Macedonian frontier.

Maro and Flaccus underwent great anxiety, hidden as they were in the vat of the wine-press, from which hiding-place they heard the whole news, with its accompanying details. Caesar had been assassinated by Cassius and Brutus in the Capitol.

“Brutus?” whispered Maro. “Then it is certainly over with the Caesars, just as the old Brutus made an end of the Kings!”

And Brutus was flying to Hellas to rouse the Greeks against the Romans. “Long live Brutus!” they cried in the garden.

“Then we shall live also!” said the pliant Flaccus. “Caesar is dead; let us do homage to Brutus for the present.”

* * * * *

Many years had passed when the former student of Athens, Quintus Horatius Flaccus, was walking one day in the garden of his villa on the Sabine Hills. This villa he had received as a gift from his friend Maecenas, who possessed a splendid country-house close by in Tibur itself.