Disgusted with Nero’s mismanagement and follies, Seneca took the death of Burrhus as an opportunity to retire.  Then Nero, freed from the last person who still retained any influence over him, gave himself up entirely to the insane swirl of his caprices.  He ended one day by presenting himself in the theatre of Naples.  Naples was yet then a Greek city.  Nero had chosen it for this reason; he was applauded with frenzy.  But the Italians of the other cities protested:  the chief of the Empire appearing in a theatre, his hand on the zither and not on the sword!  Imagine what would be the impression if some day a sovereign went on the stage of the folies Bergeres as a “number” for a sleight-of-hand performance!

Public attention, however, was turned from this immense scandal by a frightful calamity—­the famous conflagration of Rome, which began the nineteenth of July of the year 64 and devastated almost all quarters of the city for ten days.  What was the cause of the great disaster?  This very obscure point has much interested historians, who have tried in vain to throw light on the subject.  As far as I am concerned, I by no means exclude the hypothesis that the fire might have been accidental.  But when they are crushed under the weight of a great misfortune, men always feel sure that they are the victims of human wickedness:  a sad proof of their distrust in their fellow men.  The plebs, reduced to utter misery by the disaster, began to murmur that mysterious people had been seen hurrying through the different quarters, kindling the fire and cumbering the work of help; these incendiaries must have been sent by some one in power—­by whom?

A strange rumour circulated:  Nero himself had ordered the city to be burned, in order to enjoy a unique sight, to get an idea of the fire of Troy, to have the glory of rebuilding Rome on a more magnificent scale.  The accusation seems to me absurd.  Nero was a criminal, but he was not a fool to the point of provoking the wrath of the whole people for so light a motive, especially after Agrippina’s death.  Tacitus himself, in spite of his hatred of all Caesar’s family and his readiness to make them responsible for the most serious crimes, does not venture to express belief in this story—­sufficient proof that he considers it absurd and unlikely.  Nevertheless, the hatred that surrounded Nero and Poppaea made every one, not only among the ignorant populace, but also among the higher classes, accept it readily.  It was soon the general opinion that Nero had accomplished what Brennus and Catiline’s conspirators could not do.  Was a more horrible monster ever seen?  Parricide, actor, incendiary!

The traditionalist party, the opposition, the unsatisfied, exploited without scruple this popular attitude, and Nero, responsible for a sufficient number of actual crimes, found himself accused also of an imaginary one.  He was so frightened that he decided to give the clamouring people a victim, some one on whom Rome could avenge its sorrow.  An inquiry into the causes of the conflagration was ordered.  The inquest came to a strange conclusion.  The fire had been started by a small religious sect, recently imported from the Orient, a sect whose name most people then learned for the first time:  the Christians.