A father and son begged for mercy.  He promised forgiveness to the son on condition that he killed his father.  The son accepted and did the work; then he had the son despatched.  A prisoner begged but for a grave.  “The vultures will see to it,” he answered.  When at the head of Caesar’s legions, he entered Rome to avenge the latter’s death, he announced beforehand that he would imitate neither Caesar’s moderation nor Sylla’s cruelty.  There would be only a few proscriptions, and a price—­and what a price, liberty!—­was placed on the heads of hundreds of senators and thousands of knights.  And these people, who had more slaves than they knew by sight, slaves whom they tossed alive to fatten fish, slaves to whom they affected never to speak, and who were crucified did they so much as sneeze in their presence—­at the feet of these slaves they rolled, imploring them not to deliver them up.  Now and then a slave was merciful; Augustus never.

Successes such as these made him ambitious.  Having vanquished with the sword, he tried the pen.  “You may grant the freedom of the city to your barbarians,” said a wit to him one day, “but not to your solecisms.”  Undeterred he began a tragedy entitled “Ajax,” and discovering his incompetence, gave it up.  “And what has become of Ajax?” a parasite asked.  “Ajax threw himself on a sponge,” replied Augustus, whose father, it is to be regretted, did not do likewise.  Nevertheless, it were pleasant to have assisted at his funeral.

A couch of ivory and gold, ten feet high, draped with purple, stood for a week in the atrium of the palace.  Within the couch, hidden from view, the body of the emperor lay, ravaged by poison.  Above was a statue, recumbent, in wax, made after his image and dressed in imperial robes.  Near by a little slave with a big fan protected the statue from flies.  Each day physicians came, gazed at the closed wax mouth, and murmured, “He is worse.”  In the vestibule was a pot of burning ilex, and stretching out through the portals a branch of cypress warned the pontiffs from the contamination of the sight of death.

At high noon on the seventh day the funeral crossed the city.  First were the flaming torches; the statues of the House of Octavia; senators in blue; knights in scarlet; magistrates; lictors; the pick of the praetorian guard.  Then, to the alternating choruses of boys and girls, the rotting body passed down the Sacred Way.  Behind it Tiberius in a travelling-cloak, his hands unringed, marched meditating on the curiosities of life, while to the rear there straggled a troop of dancing satyrs, led by a mime dressed in resemblance of Augustus, whose defects he caricatured, whose vices he parodied and on whom the surging crowd closed in.

On the Field of Mars the pyre had been erected, a great square structure of resinous wood, the interior filled with coke and sawdust, the exterior covered with illuminated cloths, on which, for base, a tower rose, three storeys high.  Into the first storey flowers and perfumes were thrown, into the second the couch was raised, then a torch was applied.