portunity of
abusing German'icus; and taxed him with diminishing the Roman glory,
by his peculiar protection of the Athe'nians. 14. German'icus
disregarded his invectives, being more intent on executing the
business of his commission, than on counteracting the private designs
of Pi'so. 15. Piso, however, and his wife Planci'na, who is recorded
as a woman of an implacable and cruel disposition, continued to defame
him. German'icus opposed only patience and condescension to all their
invectives, and, with that gentleness which was peculiar to him,
repaid their resentments by courtesy. 16. He was not ignorant of their
motives, and was rather willing to evade than oppose their
enmity. He, therefore, took a voyage into Egypt, under pretence of
viewing the celebrated antiquities of that country; but, in reality,
to avoid the machinations of Pi'so, and those of his wife, which were
still more dangerous. 17. Upon his return he fell sick, and, whether
from a mind previously alarmed, or from more apparent marks of
treachery, he sent to let Pi'so know, that he broke off all further
connections. Growing daily worse, his death appeared to be inevitable.
18. Finding his end approaching, he addressed his friends, who stood
around his bed, to the following effect: "Had my death been natural, I
might have reason to complain of being thus snatched away from all the
endearments of life, at so early an age; but my complaints are
aggravated, in falling the victim of Pi'so's and Planci'na's
treachery. Let the emperor, therefore, I conjure you, know the manner
of my death, and the tortures I suffer. Those who loved me when
living--those who even envied my fortune--will feel some regret, when
they hear of a soldier, who had so often escaped the rage of the
enemy, falling a sacrifice to the treachery of a woman. Plead then my
cause before the people--you will be heard with pity--and if my
murderers should pretend to have acted by command, they will either
receive no credit or no pardon." 19. As he spoke these words, he
stretched forth his hand, which his weeping friends tenderly pressing,
most earnestly vowed that they would lose their lives rather than
their revenge. The dying prince, then turning to his wife, conjured
her, by her regard to his memory, and by all the bonds of nuptial
love, to submit to the necessity of the times, and to evade the
resentment of her more powerful enemies by not opposing it.[8] 20.
Nothing could exceed the distre