matter though he were last in the race, it was to him the palm was
awarded, or rather it was he that awarded the palm to himself, and
then quite magnificently shouted, "Nero, Caesar, victor in the
race, gives his crown to the People of Rome!"

On the stage he had no rivals, and by chance did one appear, he
was invited to die. In that respect he was artistically
susceptible. When he turned acrobat, the statues of former victors
were tossed in the latrinae. Yet, as competitors were needed, and
moreover as he, singly, could fill neither a stage nor a track, it
was the nobility of Rome that he ordered to appear with him. For
that the nobility never forgave him. On the other hand, the
proletariat loved him the better. What greater salve could it have
than the sight of the conquerors of the world entertaining the
conquered, lords amusing their lackeys?

Greece meanwhile sent him crowns and prayers; crowns for
anticipated victories, prayers that he would come and win them.
Homage so delicate was not to be disdained. Nero set forth, an
army at his heels; a legion of claquers, a phalanx of musicians,
cohorts of comedians, and with these for retinue, through sacred
groves that Homer knew, through intervales which Hesiod sang,
through a year of festivals he wandered, always victorious. It was
he who conquered at Olympia; it was he who conquered at Corinth.
No one could withstand him. Alone in history he won in every game,
and with eighteen hundred crowns as trophies of war he repeated
Caesar's triumph. In a robe immaterial as a moonbeam, the Olympian
wreath on his curls, the Isthmian laurel in his hand, his army
behind him, the clown that was emperor entered Rome. Victims were
immolated as he passed, the Via Sacra was strewn with saffron, the