Transcriber’s Note

Errors and inconsistencies in punctuation have been attributed to printer’s errors, and corrected.

The Greek circumflex, which appears in the text as an inverted breve (^), is rendered here using a tilde (~).

Please note the publisher’s decision to place footnotes at the bottom of each page, as well as the author’s note on this topic in the Preface. In keeping with his intent, footnotes have been moved to the end of this file.

The cover image has been modified to include the volume number, and is placed in the public domain.

Please consult the [notes] at the bottom of this text for more details on the handling of textual issues.

WORKS
BY
ERNST ECKSTEIN.

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ECKSTEIN’S ROMANCES,

11 volumes, cloth binding, in box, $8.75

Quintus Claudius

A ROMANCE OF IMPERIAL ROME

BY

ERNST ECKSTEIN

From the German by Clara Bell

IN TWO VOLUMES—VOL. II.

REVISED AND CORRECTED IN THE UNITED STATES

NEW YORK

GEO. GOTTSBERGER PECK, Publisher

11 Murray Street

1893.

Copyright, 1882, by William S. Gottsberger

THIS TRANSLATION WAS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THE PUBLISHER

QUINTUS CLAUDIUS.

CHAPTER I.

The same day, which saw our friends in the country house at Ostia, and the bond of love sealed between Aurelius and Claudia, had been one of infinite agitation and annoyance to the Emperor Domitian.

The very first thing in the morning came vexatious tidings from the town and provinces. At the earliest dawn inscriptions had been discovered on several of the fountains, columns and triumphal arches, of which the sting was more or less covertly directed against the Palatium and the person of Caesar. “Enough!” was attached to the base of a portrait bust.[1] “The fruit is ripe!” was legible on the arch of Drusus. In the fourth, eighth and ninth regions the revolutionary question was to be seen in many places: “Where is Brutus?” and at the entrance of the baths of Titus, in blood-red letters, stared the appeal: “Nero is raging; Galba, why dost thou tarry?”

Domitian, who had heard all this from his spies, long before the court officials even suspected what had happened, received these courtiers in the very worst of tempers. His levée was not yet ended, when a mounted messenger brought the news, that a centurion had raised the standard of revolt on the Germanic frontier,[2] but that he had been defeated and slain after a short struggle.

At noonday the soldiers of the town-guard seized an astrologer, Ascletario by name,[3] who had publicly announced that ruin threatened Caesar. Before the moon should have twelve times rounded—so ran his prophecy—Caesar’s blood would be shed by violence. The immortals were wroth at his reprobate passion for a woman who, by all the laws of gods and men, he had no right to love.

At first Domitian laughed. His connection with Julia seemed to him so dull and pointless a weapon for his foe to turn against him, that the stupidity of it astonished him. However, he commanded that the astrologer should be brought before him.

“Who paid you?” he enquired with a scowl, when the prisoner was dragged into the room.

“No one, my lord!”

“You lie.”

“My lord, as I hope for the mercy of the gods, I do not lie.”

“Then you really assert, that you actually read in the stars the forecast you have uttered?”

“Yes, my lord; I have only declared, what my skill has revealed to me.”

The superstitious sovereign turned pale.

“Well then, wise prophet, you can of course foretell your own end?”

“Yes, my lord. Before this day is ended, I shall be torn to pieces by dogs.”

Domitian looked scornfully round on the circle of men.

“I fancy,” he said, “that I can upset the prophetic science of this worthy man. Carry him off at once to execution, and take care that his body is burnt before sundown.”

The astrologer bowed his head in sullen resignation. He was led away to the field on the Esquiline, and immediately beheaded before an immense concourse; within an hour Domitian was informed that all was over. At this news his temper and spirit improved a little. He congratulated himself on the prompt decision, which had so signally proved the falsehood of the prophecy.

At dinner he carried on an eager conversation with Latinus, the actor[4] who, among other farcical parts, filled the role of news-monger.

“You are later than usual to-day,” said Caesar graciously. “What detained you?”

“A most laughable occurrence,” replied the comedian. “By a mere chance I passed by the Esquiline. There, in the public field, an astrologer had just been executed. The dead body was still lying there, when a stranger came by with three huge dogs.[5] Before the slaves could prevent it, the three hounds had rushed upon the carcass and had torn it literally to bits. The dogs were killed at once with loud outcries; the owner had vanished completely. Immediately after, Clodianus came up to me and asked me if I had not seen the fellow, with a long red beard. One thing led to another, till your adjutant quitted me to make farther enquiries. I hastened hither and, as it was, arrived later than I ought.”

The narrator had not observed, that every trace of color had faded out of the Emperor’s cheeks. As he ceased speaking, Domitian sprang up and, without saying a word, rushed out of the triclinium and into his own apartments. An intolerable dread almost deprived him of breath;[6] he ran like a hunted deer from one room to another, now shaking his fists in impotent fury, and again stopping to look suspiciously round him on every side. In this wretched frame of mind he was found by Julia, who had been seriously ill ever since the return of Domitia. In spite of the Empress’s commands, she had not yet quitted the palace. She came in, fevered and pale, to implore protection against her haughty rival, who had threatened to turn her into the street. The palace servants had tried to stop her at the entrance to Domitian’s apartments, but she had thrust them aside with the strength of desperation. At the sound of footsteps Domitian started and turned round. She stood before him—young, lovely, wretched—the victim of his remorseless passion. But the sight of her, far from stirring his pity, roused him to foaming rage. Was it not she, the abandoned creature, who had brought down on him the wrath of the gods? Was it not for her sake, that his blood was to be shed, if the astrologer had prophesied truly? And he had prophesied only too truly! His own end had borne witness to the truth of his mission.

“Hussy!” yelled the Emperor. “Have you come to mock me? Are you plotting to murder me, that you come sneaking round me? It is your doing, and no one else is to blame if Caesar perishes in his blood...! Go, serpent! This very day quit Rome, or I will have you flogged through the gates.”

The hapless girl drew herself up proudly.

“This,” she cried, “to crown my misery. Are you not satisfied with having betrayed my youth, and poisoned my innocence? Is this the compensation for a life of horror?”

“Silence! It is a lie! It was your own vanity, that ruined you—your ambition, hoping to share a throne. Out of my sight, I say—you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Miserable coward! Are you frightened by the forecast of a soothsayer? Well, your fate will overtake you; but not for my sake—no; for the sake of Rome!”

“Go ...” shrieked Domitian, “or I shall kill you!”

“Well then, kill me. Add the crowning stroke to all your crimes! What do I care? I do not ask to stay in this world of misery and infamy, or in this proud Empire of Rome whose Emperor is an executioner.”

At this instant the slaves, who were waiting in the anteroom, heard a dull sound as of a blow or push, a piercing scream, and a heavy fall, and the next moment Domitian called out in a hoarse, choked voice: “Phaeton!” When the slave entered the room, Julia was senseless on the floor.[7] She was lying doubled up in a convulsed attitude, and her face was livid rather than pale.

“Carry her away,” said Caesar; “she is ill.”

The senseless girl was carried away, and that same day she died of an internal injury.

Domitian spent a terrible night. In the course of the third vigil he sent an express to Norbanus, the general of the Praetorian Guard. For hours he sat up in torment on his couch, making his slaves sing to the lute. Now and again he asked for a weapon, or for drink, or sent all the attendants out of the room excepting Phaeton, his favorite slave, who was to bar the door, and guard it sword in hand.

At last the day broke. It was Domitian’s birthday, the 24th of October.[8] During the first hour after sunrise the usual ceremonious reception took place of magistrates, senators, and knights.[9] Outside the palace there was a scene of confusion, such as was rarely seen even in Rome. All the suburbs seemed to have emptied themselves, and the people to have converged on the Forum. Instead of one cohort of the praetorian guard, two had been posted on guard, and the sentinels at the palace gates were also doubled. The officials, whose business it was to check the admission of visitors, straightly enquired of each individual as he crossed the threshold of the audience chamber, whether he had any weapon about him. It was many years since this had last been done, and the effect was paralyzing.

Domitian received the senators, not merely with reserve, but with evident repugnance, nor did he bestow on one of those who attended the customary honor of a kiss. A dull atmosphere of suspicion brooded like a vapor, and seemed to fill the splendidly-decorated room.[10] As the last visitors retired from the presence, it was rather like an escape or a flight. Atra cura, as sung by Horatius Flaccus,[11] seemed to have flung her dark robe over the palace.

At last three men were left in attendance on the Emperor: Clodianus, Parthenius, the high-chamberlain, and Norbanus, the general of the guard. This last was perhaps the only person, whom Domitian had received with politeness—indeed, so far as he was concerned, with marked attention. The tyrant, who, to every one else was cold and contemptuous, turned from time to time to the noble soldier with an engaging smile to assure him, half stammering, of his unaltered favor. The ruler of the world had altogether lost his command of himself.

“And you have found no trace, formed no guess?” he asked with a frightened glance in the general’s face. “Your efforts too, Clodianus, have been unsuccessful?”

“Alas, my lord and god! I have offered great rewards, I have bribed dozens of idlers—all in vain; and to crown our ill-luck, when the slaves burnt the pile intended for the astrologer’s body, they flung in, not merely the remains of Ascletario, but the dead hounds as well. Thus we lost the last clue to the discovery.”

“Let them be crucified! idiotic fools!” shrieked Caesar, trembling in every limb.

“They richly deserve it,” said Clodianus. “Still, I cannot comprehend the matter. The strange man, who suddenly appeared with the dogs, has suddenly vanished, as if the earth had swallowed him; and from among a knot of old women I heard a voice exclaim: ‘It is Ahasuerus!’”

“Ahasuerus!” shouted the Emperor, starting up. “Then have Ahasuerus advertised for.”

“Impossible,” replied Clodianus. “Ahasuerus is a boguey creature of the Nazarenes, a restless spirit that wanders over lands and seas. I only mentioned the fact, to show you the impression produced by the apparition. There was something supernatural and appalling in his appearance....”

Domitian was more agitated every moment; he paced the room excitedly.

“Are all those infamous inscriptions torn down and wiped out?” he suddenly asked, addressing Parthenius.

"Can you doubt it?... Why, the very morning dew, disgusted at the crime, did its best to wash them away."[12] “Why did you not tell me of the inscription at the baths of Titus?”

“My lord, you knew of it....”

“From Latinus, who came to me at break of day.”

“My lord, I thought....”

“Silence. It was your duty to tell me the whole truth. Only by complete knowledge can an evil be met; a blind man falls into the pit.”

“My lord, if you desire it....” said Parthenius, laying his hand on his heart. Clodianus also bowed in sign of utter devotion, and his eye was positively radiant with fidelity and reverence—only on his full underlip there was the faintest possible twitch of self-satisfied irony.

Again Domitian took to pacing the room, which was lined with mirrors. On every side he could see his pale, bloated face, here and there distorted and lengthened by some imperfection in the mirror. He shuddered.

“I am ill, my faithful friends,” he said in a low voice. “I need rest and quiet reflection—but the good of the Empire is paramount. Listen and perpend.” He sat down and went on deliberately: “The times are perilous; treason lurks in every corner. Rome relies on Caesar; I must act. Terror alone can suppress treason, and I will strike terror into the traitors. The law against the Nazarenes is a good beginning, but it is merely a beginning. It only attacks the Catilines among the slaves and lowest class. We must go farther. We must strike at Caesar’s foes in the houses of the great and noble among the knights, and in the Senate. Numbers are suspected by us, and to be suspected is to deserve death. Our heart, in its tender mercy,[13] has too often held our hand, but now the hour is come. In profound silence, but without delay, we must act—must strike the guilty with the swiftness and certainty of lightning. This very day vengeance must be planned. Once more, valiant Norbanus: how about the trustworthiness of your cohorts?”

Norbanus bowed. “They are Caesar’s—heart and soul and body.”

“The little gold Domitians have pleased the good fellows? Keep them warm, dear Norbanus, and if the two millions are not enough for you, say so without reserve. The soldiers, who protect my Empire, must learn to believe, that liberality sits on the throne of the Caesars.”

“Many thanks, my lord, but greater largesse might weaken discipline.”

“But the centurions?”

“They are without exception strict and faithful. At a nod from me they would ride through fire and water.”

“Capital!” said Domitian with a bitter-sweet smile; for, without intending it, the general had given utterance to a painful sentiment, of which the Emperor had long been conscious: namely, that the praetorian guard would first obey their general, and at his orders only were devoted to their sovereign. This did not escape the keen insight of Clodianus, and again a subtle line of malicious satisfaction curled the lips of the man, who usually played the part of stolid honesty with the greatest success. As chance would have it, on this occasion the Emperor, looking up suddenly, caught the last quivering trace of this smile. He took no notice of it; he perhaps became a shade paler—but he turned to whisper to the prefect of the guard.

“Only let this cloud of disaffection and excitement pass over,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder, “and, I promise you, Caesar will not forget you. Now, my friends, farewell, and await our commands.”

The general received a farewell kiss, and quitted the room.

“What an age is this, by all the gods!” exclaimed Domitian, throwing up his arms. “To contend against the malice of the people, Caesar is forced to sacrifice the hours, which he owes to the happiness and welfare of the people. Woe is me, that the immortals should allow such things to happen! Up and to work then! That is the word.”

As he spoke, he rose and, followed by Parthenius and Clodianus, he went into his private study. The chamberlain closed the door behind him; Phaeton was on guard in the anteroom.

While the founder of the reign of terror thus yielded to an ill-concealed attack of panic, and already, in fancy, heard the roar of revolt, knocking with its blood-reddened sword at his palace gate, the reign of terror itself was lording it abroad, apparently more splendid and firmly based than ever. The doubled garrison had increased the popular feeling of the Emperor’s might, and the calm, impressive solemnity, with which the terrible edict against the Nazarenes had been discussed and promulgated, seemed amply to prove how strong the throne felt itself, and how completely it was master of the situation. The numerous sacrifices which the prime mover of that piece of legislature, Titus Claudius Mucianus, had, in his function as Flamen, offered up to Jupiter, were both favorable and auspicious. The lower classes, who streamed in merry troops to the Circus Maximus, rejoiced over the gifts of corn and the gratification of their passion for a spectacle. The shouting and chanting processions of the priests of Bona Dea and of Isis added to the solemnity of the festival. Not a word of disaffection, not a discordant murmur was to be heard in this universal jubilation, which rolled in a mighty flood through the streets, markets, and public places. Sorrow and discontent are silent on such occasions. In the temple of Saturn a troop of blooming youths, wearing to-day for the first time the toga virilis,[14] sang a high-flown festal ode, composed by Marcus Valerius Martialis. The inspired verse sounded out through the Forum, borne on the wings of a hundred youthful voices:

“Hail! oh birthday of Caesar, day more bright and auspicious

Ev’n than the day when, on Ida, Rhea gave birth to Zeus[15]

Hail! and return more often than erst to Pylian Nestor,[16]

Ever as bright as to-day, or a thousand times more fair.

Many years yet may Caesar keep the feast of Minerva[17]

Held on the Alban Hill; and confer the victor’s wreath

Twined of oak-leaves, the prize to crown the worthiest singer.

Soon may he hallow the secular games with offerings and gifts!

Great is the boon we ask; but from the gods in heaven

Such a boon is due to Caesar, the god upon earth.[18]”

The melodious strain soared up from the temple of Saturn to the towering Palatium beyond.

But he, to whom the homage was offered, heard it not. Shut up with Clodianus and Parthenius, he was writing down on a wooden tablet the names of those, whom he devoted to death.[19] Parthenius read them out in a low voice, and the Emperor assented; then the chamberlain wrote down another list of names, and again they were discussed in an undertone. Domitian’s face meanwhile grew more and more like that of a jaguar, lurking in ambush to pounce on his prey.

“And you, Clodianus,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “Do not you know of any reprobate wretch, who deserves to die?” He fixed his eye on the soldier’s face.

“No, my lord,” said the adjutant. “It seems to me, that you have not overlooked one.”

“It is well. You will copy out the list—at once. The tablet I myself will keep. When Rome is saved, I will hang it up in the temple of Jupiter.”

Clodianus took his writing implements out of the folds of his tunic.

“Perhaps,” the Emperor added with a meaning smile.—“Perhaps another name or two may occur to me.” And he hid the strip of lime-wood in his bosom.

“And now,” he continued, “make your plans. I will not listen to anything till you can say to me: all is over; the deed is done. You know how cautiously, how warily you must proceed. Remember, your existence too is endangered; when a tree falls, the branches fall with it.—Go, my friends. If you triumph, I will endow you with power above all other mortals, and in splendor and honors you shall be equal with myself. I will name you my brothers.”

He sank exhausted on to a chair; Parthenius and Clodianus left the room.

“Yes, yes!” muttered Domitian between his teeth, as the door closed behind the two men; “one is yet wanting on the list of the elect!”

He drew forth the tablet, and, with an indescribable grimace of hatred, wrote at the end of the long list of names: “Clodianus.”

“Wait awhile, my friend! This task you shall be allowed to finish—but then—it is not well, when a sapling grows too proudly skywards.”

CHAPTER II.

Early next morning Quintus made his way to the Flamen’s house. The great sitting of the Senate, which was to determine the fate of the edict against the Nazarenes, had been fixed for this forenoon; until he should join it, Titus Claudius was spending the morning with his family. The weather was unusually mild for the late season, and Octavia had ordered that breakfast should be served in the peristyle, and here, comfortably extended on his couch, the high-priest was enjoying his favorite dish, fresh eggs with garum.[20] The ladies, attended only by Baucis and a little girl, were sitting in easy-chairs, sipping milk cooled with ice[21] out of pale, gleaming Murrhine cups. Perfect silence reigned in the cavaedium; not even a slave stole across the marble flags, and the very tree-tops, golden in the morning sunshine, were motionless in the mild autumn air.

As Quintus came in from the arcade, and saw this party of those who were near and dear to him, his heart sank within him. A longing, which even in his sleep had haunted his dreams, and had driven him from his bed before daybreak, came over him now with almost irresistible force; his impulse was to throw himself at his father’s feet, and kiss the hands that had so often rested lovingly on his head and brow. But he controlled himself. He went up to the high-priest, and gave him an affectionate kiss as usual, pressed his hand warmly, and then greeted the rest of the party gaily enough.

The previous day Quintus had come to a conclusion, which must open an impassable gulf between himself and his father. At the very time, when Titus Claudius was putting the finishing strokes to the great plan of attack against the Nazarenes, Quintus had made up his mind, that nothing less than the doctrine of that contemned sect could quench the thirst of his yearning soul. This consciousness had started into being suddenly, like a plant which springs up in a night; but the soil whence it made its way towards the light was—as we already know—ready long since, up-turned, as it were, by the ploughshare of doubt and dissatisfaction. The germ of his new views of life had long been slumbering as a dim craving, a longing, deep but aimless, for some saving certainty; it had needed no more than a fertilizing shower to develop it. Quintus was not disposed to bring a critical philosophy to bear on each of the various mysteries of the new faith, which, indeed, were as yet only known to him in part; but he grasped the kernel of the matter, and the more he investigated it, the deeper his conviction grew. The grand principle of the brotherly equality of all men, impressed him as strongly as the simple and yet consoling metaphysics of Christianity. To a naturally-creative imagination like his, the doctrine of an universal spirit embracing all time and space in sempiternal love was intrinsically clear and intelligible. He found in it the happy half-way term between the bewildering superstitions of popular belief and the cold abstractions of systematic philosophy. Added to this, was the ineffaceable impression made on his feelings by the high-souled nature of the wounded slave. The figure of Eurymachus shed a heavenly light on the source, whence he could have derived his invincible strength and lofty contempt of suffering and death.

Late the evening before, Quintus had sought out old Thrax, and had told him that Eurymachus at last was safe. Then they had all sat together for a long time—Quintus, Thrax, Glauce, Euterpe, and Diphilus—and the old man had not wearied of talking of the carpenter’s Son, of his wanderings through the land of Palestine, and the agonizing death he had suffered on the cross to redeem mankind. The impressive story of that life and passion, which has touched and stirred so many million hearts since, had an extraordinary effect on Quintus. And, in fact, Thrax told his story well; the glow of conviction seemed to sparkle from his eyes. His was not the calm inspiration of Eurymachus—it was the language of a vehement and excited nature, of a soul full of suppressed energy and enthusiasm; not John, who leaned on the bosom of Jesus, but Peter drawing his sword in passionate zeal.

As Barbatus ceased speaking, Quintus started up, threw his arms round him, and exclaimed through his tears: “Receive me among you.... I too, am one of you!”

So it was agreed that Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen, Titus Claudius Mucianus, should, next day, be baptized in a quarry not far from the river Almo.

It was the thought of this privilege, and of the contradictory aspects of his position, which all through the night had pursued him in a thousand different forms, and now, in his father’s hall, filled him with unutterable confusion. He felt that he must for a moment forget the abyss that lay between them, and once more hear his father’s voice in loving tones, before their parting was an accomplished fact—forever.

The sense of an imperative duty was added to this sentiment. He felt that, hoping against hope, he must, even at the eleventh hour, try to weaken his father’s position.—The final details of the edict, he knew, were virtually in the Flamen’s hands. The Senate had long been accustomed to vote for whatever the Emperor wished, without any alterations, and Titus Claudius spoke in Caesar’s name. Domitian, amply satisfied of his representative’s inexorable temper, had not even taken the trouble to look through the sketch of the edict; the whole tenor of the law, in fact, lay in the high-priest’s hands.

How gladly would Quintus have poured out his heart to his father, and have told him without reserve all that he held to be true, fair, and good! How willingly would he have gone up to him, and have said: “Caesar’s government is groping in darkness; these Christians, whom you are condemning to destruction, are not criminals, but noble, virtuous, high-souled men—as noble, and virtuous, and high-souled as you yourself, father, who persecute them with such vindictive fury.”

But such boldness, alas! was out of the question; Quintus knew his father too well. He knew, that the rigid convictions of a mind like his were impervious to all that was new or strange, that even the logic of facts could only reach him by a long and circuitous route. His convictions had been the slow growth of years of unresting activity, and now they were immovable—a part of his very self. Thus Quintus had not the smallest doubt, that Titus Claudius, like a second Brutus, would not spare his own son, if duty and paternal feeling should come into conflict. So it was not his own peril only, which dictated moderation and silence, but regard for his father’s situation; and he never had felt a more tender reverence for him, than in this terrible hour. He could not speak as an adherent, nor even as a defender of the persecuted creed; only as a looker-on from the point of view of abstract justice. In speech and in silence alike he must betray no impatience, and seem only to have acquired his more exact knowledge of the Christian creed by accident. He could do no more than represent the Nazarenes as harmless folks, who neither deserved persecution nor were worth the trouble.

When he had taken his seat at the table by Lucilia, like a man who has time before him, he asked, throwing his head back and clasping his hands across his knee:

“Well, father ... and to-day is the last meeting?”

“As you say,” replied the high-priest.

“I must confess, that the matter has remained almost unknown to me.... I have been so absorbed in study, that I have hardly time to frequent the baths....”

“You are three-and-twenty, Quintus! When do you propose to take a proper interest in the great concerns of the Empire?”

“Indeed I generally follow them all with eager interest. It is only that just lately, at this moment....”

“This is the very moment, when all who are well-affected ought to cling together and show their zeal in action.”

“It is said, that the decree you propose is excessively severe,” said Quintus after a pause.

“It will answer its purpose.”

“And will be issued unmodified?”

“Why should good sound sense be modified?”

“Well ... opinions might differ.”

“They might, if the whole body of the Fathers[22] were men of the same stamp as that Cornelius Cinna ... then sound sense would indeed be in danger!”

“Cornelius Cinna is a man of keen judgment....”

“I quite understand, that you should talk the language of the uncle of your betrothed; but, as I know him, he is devoid of all capacity for statesmanship. Now in this matter of the Nazarenes he has amply betrayed his want of judgment—I will call it so, since I should be loth to suppose that his opposition arises from mere personal aversion.”

“What?” cried Quintus astonished. “Cornelius Cinna takes the part of the Nazarenes?”

“No, he does not take their part, but he does not regard them as dangerous. He laughs at them as visionaries and fools, who are no more to be held as reprobate, than the worshippers of Isis, or any other oriental sect. Mockery, contempt, are the only weapons worthy of a thinking man. When I pointed out to him, that the creed of the Nazarenes was undermining the religion of the state in a way which no other superstition had done, he dared to utter these audacious words: ‘If your Olympus cannot take care of itself, it may crumble into dust.’”

“The words, I admit, sound audacious enough,” replied Quintus, looking his father in the face; “but they cover a truth nevertheless, which, it seems to me, cannot fail to be self-evident to the priest of Jupiter.”

“You think so? I can only tell you, that I see nothing of the sort. The rabble crowd of superstitious cannot, to be sure, destroy almighty Jupiter himself, but it can upset the belief in his divine rule. We may be deprived of our discernment of the truth, if a lie becomes paramount.”

“Why then do you not resist the belief in Isis?”

“Because the religion of Isis has never dared to interfere in any way with that of the state. Besides, Isis is Juno; the name makes no difference. The symbol may vary—the essence remains untouched. You know, that even in my own house I have suffered Baucis....”

“Oh! merciful Isis!” cried the old woman in alarm, “am I too to be dragged under the dreadful law? Why, how often have I been to Barbillus? Four, or at most five times—or six or seven....”

“Hold your tongue, and leave us together,” cried the priest angrily. “She is getting silly,” he added, as Baucis vanished among the columns.

“She is growing deaf,” said Claudia in excuse. “Since our return from Baiae, I have had more to put up with every day.”

“You see I can be patient,” Titus Claudius went on, addressing his son. “But in this instance we must take up arms against the attacks of a dangerous foe. The Nazarenes are working underground, day and night, like moles. Their passion for converts amounts to insanity; they are systematically undermining the state and society. I am determined to put a stop to these attacks. If we do not put our veto on them in time, we shall have a common porter on the throne of the Caesars, and all that wear the purple will be put to the sword. Some slave, whose sole employment till now has been to drag dead beasts to be buried, or carry plague-stricken wretches through the streets, will be sacrificing in the Roman Capitol as high-priest to the Nazarene! I know it all full well; there are unmistakable signs in the air. This, my dear Quintus, by the help of the gods, is what we must oppose, and I shall avail myself of the aid of all the terrors of the law. This very day it will be proclaimed to all men, that leniency is at an end: henceforth the punishment for the crime of belonging to the Nazarenes is death by wild beasts in the Arena.”

The blood faded from the young man’s face; his heart stood still. He could not utter a word.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Titus Claudius startled. “You are pale ... trembling....”

“It is nothing,” Quintus said with an effort. “I was only horrified at the severity of the measure. What? The disgraceful death of the vilest criminals ... hideous butchery for the amusement of the mob...? Father, impossible!”

“It is necessary,” replied the Flamen.

“I do not understand you. Is it necessary to punish with death a crime—which to me seems an error indeed, but a pardonable, a noble, a sublime error...? Father, you do not know these persecuted people; you have never studied their doctrine; you cannot imagine how completely you are entangled in delusions about them. The Nazarenes are not rebels; they are quiet, duteous folk, who ask but one thing: to be allowed to worship their God. Their Master himself taught them: ‘To render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’”

“Only a partisan of the sect could have poured such lies into your ear....”

“I was, by accident, witness to a discussion,” Quintus stammered out. “And I will pledge my life and honor as to the truth of what I have said!”

“The truth!” laughed his father. “For the truth of your own view of the matter at most. By the gods, but I really do not understand how my son, of all men, should have come to be a defender of this accursed sect! However, be it so! I leave you the free exercise of your judgment; the course of events will soon rectify it. Meanwhile, you will perhaps allow me to carry out the line of action, which I have cautiously weighed with solemn appeals to my conscience.”

“Then you want to conjure the age of Nero from the grave?”

“Yes, my son. The age of Nero was not so bad, though the unbridled Caesar himself committed many crimes. His fight against the Nazarenes wipes out all scores.”

“Then you can praise him for having wrapped Nazarenes in tow and rosin, and set fire to it?”

“Those are mere foolish tales, invented by contemptible writers, who were at a loss for color in their pictures.”

“What? Things that all the world knows, a fable!”

“As you say.”

The blood mounted to the young man’s brow.

“Then perhaps you will say it is a fable, that Domitian—a second Nero—has killed his mistress by a kick?”

“Who says so?” cried Titus Claudius starting up.

“All Rome. You only, Father, seem to be ignorant of what has filled thousands with horror.”

“You heard it from Cinna.”

Quintus shrugged his shoulders.

“Be easy,” the priest went on; “I have it from Parthenius, that Julia died of her long illness.”

“Parthenius!” laughed Quintus scornfully.

“I am not justified in doubting his assertion, particularly in this instance, when it is in contradiction to such an impossible calumny. I myself have been intimate with Caesar long enough to know his calm nature, his equanimity, and self-command.”

“Yes, when he speaks to you; but every one knows that he wears a mask in your presence. You are, in fact, the only man in Rome, who can command his respect.”

“I should be a fool indeed to believe such a thing. I know full well, that hatred and calumny never sleep. The higher their prey, the more virulent is their attack. Beware, my son, of propagating such disgraceful reports; do not break the law which threatens the detractors of the sovereign with heavy punishment.”

“Then, to be a worthy citizen, I must choke the truth?”

“Not the truth—only lies. The weeds have been allowed to grow too long, and now we must mow down the crop, which threatens to choke the good seed! Here comes the boy to tell us the time. In an hour the Senate meets. Let us enjoy the interval without vexing each other.”

“Then you persist in extreme measures? Every one who confesses the Nazarene must die?”

“Without reprieve, be he slave or senator.”

Quintus was fighting an agonizing battle; his lips trembled, already parted to cry in despair to the inexorable judge: “Father, you are condemning your son to death...!” but he controlled himself in time. He rose.

“Farewell,” he said in a low voice, and he held out both hands to his father. “I am very busy,” he added in a steady voice. “Important business—you need not laugh, Lucilia—requires my return. Father, when it is your turn to speak in the Senate, remember your son—perhaps the thought may soften your heart; the Christians, too, whom you doom to death, are fathers ... sons....”

He rushed away. He was on the verge of tears, but he set his teeth and clenched his fist.

“Oh! misery, misery!” he said to himself. “Father! Father! who could have foreseen this severance when I, as a boy, sat at your feet? Nay, quite lately, when you spoke to me so gravely!—How happy, how gay they all were; and he, so calm in the sense of doing his duty! If he only knew—it would kill him!”

He hurried through the atrium, almost beside himself; Blepyrus, to whom he had only yesterday granted his pardon, was waiting there with others of his clients and slaves.

His family looked after him in silence. Octavia was the first to speak.

“It is strange,” she said thoughtfully, “by all the gods, strange! What can have come over him? He always held the populace in such contempt.”

“It is impossible to count upon him,” said Lucilia. “But this time, it seems to me, he is carrying his whim too far.”

“You are wrong,” said her father sternly. “It was no whim that spoke in that mood of excitement, it was genuine enthusiasm. I have observed in him for some time, that this frame of mind has been growing to a height. It is the sacred fire of pity, which burns within him, a noble sentiment which discerns the man even in the criminal. He cannot comprehend, that the State must ignore all such sentiment, if the commonwealth is not to suffer. His impulse is a foolish one, but I love him for it; and many a Roman maiden who, with thumbs turned down,[23] helps in condemning the stricken gladiator to the death-blow, might envy him his nobler soul!”

The high-priest rose and walked two or three times up and down, past the fountain where the sparkling water now gleamed in the rising sun.

“It is time to go,” he said, standing still in front of his wife. “What a pity! It is a glorious morning, and I feel as if I had never so thoroughly enjoyed the rest and peacefulness of this peristyle. Perhaps it is only by contrast with the storms outside, that toss the vessel of state.... The sitting will be a long one, if only on Cinna’s account, who never will refrain from words, even when the struggle is a hopeless one. I shall be thankful if it is all over by supper-time. And—did I tell you?—Sextus Furius is to be our guest.”

Claudia colored.

“He is welcome,” Octavia said.

“Oh! that odious man with a long-pointed nose!” cried Lucilia. “It is horrible always to have none but such weak-kneed old men at table with us.”

Titus Claudius was accustomed to allow considerable license to his adopted daughter’s audacity, but such broadly-expressed contempt was beyond all permissible measure.

“Lucilia!” he exclaimed almost angrily. “You sometimes allow yourself jests, which seem to me positively silly. Remember—do you hear me?—many follies, which we forgive in a child, sound shocking when uttered by the lips of a young woman. How dare you make any guests of mine the subject of your mockery? Sextus Furius is an honorable man, wise, experienced, and worthy of all respect. If his outward man is not altogether that of the fine gentlemen, who swarm and buzz from morning till night round the dressing-chairs and litters[24] of fine ladies, in my eyes, at least, that is to his advantage.”

“My dear, good, little father,” said the criminal, “do not take a thoughtless speech so seriously; I cannot bear to hear you speak to me so ungraciously—and your eyes are not so kind and sweet as usual, and here on your forehead—just here—there is an ugly line that makes you look so much older....”

She threw her round, rosy arms round his neck, and stroked his cheek lovingly.

“Come, be kind again to your little girl—and I will declare that your long-nosed—oh! I forgot—your excellent friend, Sextus Furius, is delightful.” Titus Claudius gently released himself; he could not help smiling.

“It is impossible to scold you, you little imp,” he said shaking his head. “I am afraid I spoil you.”

And he once more glanced up at the blue sky, as though he grudged having to exchange the airy peristyle for the senate-house. Then, waving them a farewell, he went off to his own rooms.

“But he is a perfect horror, all the same,” Lucilia repeated, when her father was out of hearing. “I can tell you, Mother dear, I could not kiss him for a thousand millions, much less marry him! And is this long-nosed, weak-kneed creature to be the husband of our Claudia?”

“Silence, silly child,” said Octavia with affected severity. “Your father’s will is our law. He has his own reasons for whatever he decides on.”

“You are only making believe,” said Lucilia. “You know you like him no better than I do, and you, too, grieve over the odious fancy....”

“Lucilia!”

“Well ... is one to bite one’s tongue out simply from respect of persons? My father often has fancies. What should Claudia have to do with that wooden simpleton? And he is as cowardly as a whimpering woman! Cornelia told me so—she heard it from her uncle.”

“It is not every one, that has the headstrong spirit of Cinna.”

“A Scythian, who simply cut down all before him, his wife into the bargain, rather than a milksop, that you can knock down with a feather!”

“You know nothing about it, child. But where is Claudia? Why has she left us?”

“She has gone to her own room, I daresay, to cry there. Since yesterday, when my father told her of his determination, she has practised such complete self-control, that her grief must have its way at last.”

But Lucilia was mistaken. Claudia had followed her father, and went into his room close on his heels.

“What do you want?” he asked in surprise, seeing his daughter stand before him, pale, calm, and stately.

“I have a confession to make to you, which has been on my lips ever since yesterday.”

“Well?” said the high-priest, hardly attending.

“Send away the servants.”

“Child, I have no time now for any discussions; in twenty minutes....”

“I will not detain you.” The Flamen signed to the slaves, who disappeared with an enquiring glance at the young girl’s unusually serious face and manner.

“Now—what have you to say?” he asked, when they were alone.

“Father,” said Claudia in a low, but resolute tone, “I cannot marry Sextus Furius.”

“Folly!”

“It is not folly—it is as I say.”

“Indeed! and why not?”

“Because I do not care for him.”

“An excellent reason! Why, you hardly know him; try first to understand his worth.”

“I solemnly assure you it is quite in vain. My heart is given away—I love Caius Aurelius Menapius.”

“What!” cried the priest sternly. “A provincial, a man of no birth or family!”

“He is a Roman knight.”

“A knight—and who is not a knight now-a-days? A man is a knight, if he is anything but a laborer or a slave. Besides, is not his mother descended from some barbarian tribe?”

“From the tribe, that could conquer Varus.”

“So much the worse. It grieves me to have to tell you, that I will never submit to such a vagary.”

“But let me ask you one thing: do you not esteem Caius Aurelius?”

“You know I do. From the first I have thought most highly of him. But, by Jupiter! To regard him as my guest is one thing—as a suitor for my daughter’s hand is quite another!”

“Father, if you part me from Caius Aurelius, I shall never be happy again. He has my promise.”

Her tone, and, yet more, the sparkle in her eyes betrayed such settled determination, that the high-priest was staggered. The thought flashed upon him that, after all, not everything in the world could be calculated by the inexorable laws of logic; the possibility of Claudia’s choosing for herself he had never taken into consideration. And now this possibility—nay, actuality—stood before him so pressingly, in the form of a pair of tearful, suppliant eyes, that he at once lost his grasp of the situation. As for Claudia herself, her forced calmness was fast giving way before the storm of excitement, which shook every fibre of her slender frame.

“Claudia, my darling,” stammered the Flamen, clasping his child in his arms, “you are trembling and tearful; but come, come, be reasonable. There, lay your head on my shoulder, and tell me, calmly and without tears, what is troubling your heart? I am your father, my child, and not a tyrant. Do you hear, my Claudia?”

She looked up like a flower after a thunder-shower—a radiance of a grateful smile lighted up her features.

“You are so good!” she said, tenderly. “Forgive me, if I cannot help causing you trouble.”

“Speak, my child; tell me everything. But, no; for the present leave me. You are agitated, and time presses. We will talk it all over—this very evening.—Just now I have not leisure—I belong to my country. Meanwhile I must ask you one thing: do not be too abrupt with Sextus Furius. Promise me that, dear Claudia.”

“With all my heart.”

She kissed her father eagerly and left the room.

“No,” said the priest half-aloud, “she must not and shall not be unhappy. I never before saw her like this; that anguish came from the bottom of her heart. I know her; I understand her! The dignity of my name! Yes, it is dear to me, and sacred as a gift bestowed by the gods—but at that price! Never. My heart swelled as she clung to me, crying in my arms. And yet what a joy to me, in spite of sorrow! Ah, my children! how you have grown to be part of my very soul! Every life-throb of my heart is doubled by your lives! I thank Thee, all-merciful giver, for so precious a blessing—every cloud of incense, that rises from thine altar, wafts up my fervent thanks to thy throne!”

For a few minutes he stood absorbed in thought; then he called his slaves to dress him.

A quarter of an hour later Titus Claudius was at the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, where the Senate was to sit.

Almost all the Fathers had met on this occasion. Here sat Nerva, a noble and reverend figure, mild, but majestic as Jove; there, bending over his rolled book and writing tablets, sat Cornelius Cinna, the chief opponent of the proposed law; there again sat Sextus Furius, shy and hesitating, but in earnest discussion with his neighbor, evidently endeavoring to display a feverish anxiety that the new decree should be passed. On every side were snow-white togas, grave and dignified faces, a strangely-excited air of suspense. The scribes—the writers of protocols—sat at tables prepared to write, while at the entrances stood the lictors[25] with their axes and fasces.

The presiding magistrate—on this occasion a praetor, no doubt because the consul, Titus Flavius Clemens, was suspected of secretly favoring the Nazarenes, or even of having joined the sect—pronounced the sitting opened.[26] He briefly set forth the occasion of the present meeting, and explained to the assembled worthies the main features of the edict, as drawn up by Titus Claudius.

When these preliminary statements—known as the relatio,[27] had been got through, the collecting of votes began with the usual formula addressed to each senator: “Quid censes?”—“What thinkest thou?”

As almost every member present declared his assent without hesitation, and some with servile cordiality, in hardly more than a quarter of an hour it came to Cinna’s turn to express his opinion.

He rose slowly. His by no means remarkable stature seemed to grow from the sheer calm dignity of the man. His eye glanced contemptuously round at the assembled multitude and rested, at length, on the grave face of Titus Claudius Mucianus. Then, in clear and audible tones, he began to contest the proposed measure which, in his opinion, was unworthy of the Roman name. It was a brilliant and memorable effort of political eloquence. At the same time his discourse was not framed on the ordinary models in any respect, it was not with the arid wisdom of a statesman that he spoke—no, it was the biting lash of the satirist that he wielded—the fiery invective of epigram, that gave glow to his words. There was not a province of human knowledge so recondite, that his subtle mind had not drawn upon it for drastic similes and ironical comparisons.

“Will you nail flies to the cross,” he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, “erect cranes and levers, to lift a straw over a wall? Send me a hundred cohorts to my country-house; a mole-hill has been discovered there! Give me shears and scythes and a couple of wagons; I want to cut a rose-bud at Praestum! Reef the sails, captain, the fair Lycoris is about to sneeze! You are really inimitable, you stern guardians of morals and most sapient defenders of the immaculateness of the State! Punish the sparrows, if you please; one of those traitorous villains but just now soiled my cloak. Away with the wretch to the field of blood! If you do not at once take steps, the Senate and the whole Roman people will be buried alive by cock-sparrows.”

After thus gibbeting the measure as absolutely superfluous, petty and ridiculous, from the point of view of any cultivated and philosophical mind, he followed up his statement to its logical issues.

“This decree,” he cried, turning towards Titus Claudius, “condemns the Nazarenes, because they regard the gods of the populace as unreal—as mere idols of the fancy. Well! And is it the right or the duty of the State, to take under its control any such matters of personal conviction? Where would you draw the line, ye assembled Fathers? Do you not perceive, that you are throwing away the last fragments of our liberties, if you assent to this law? What? You will kill the Nazarenes? Then you are equally bound to crush all, who refuse to acknowledge the love passages of Mars and Rhea Silvia as facts! And again I say, where do you draw the line? How far does the duty of a staunch citizen extend? Must an Athenian, for instance, give due guarantee, that he accepts the historical reality of Leda’s eggs? Is he required to believe in Danae’s golden shower, in Sisyphus[28] and his tormenting labor with the marble mass that forever rolls downwards? Nay, noble Fathers! Nothing like this has ever yet been heard of in Rome. Never yet has the State ventured to put forward any article of faith as a test and standard, and require every Roman citizen to be persuaded of its truth or lose his rights and privileges. What is the meaning of our old, beautiful and truly Latin word ‘religio?’[29] Nothing more than the holy dread, the heartfelt reverence of man before a higher power; but what that higher something may be, it contains no indication. It is left to each individual, to conceive of an idea which may satisfy his own soul and intellect. The measure now before you will drag this religion from the depths of men’s souls into the public street, as it were, in defiance of the original deep-felt sense of the word, and of the spirit of our traditions and customs; it will create a State-religion, and condemn every man’s opinions to wear at least the same livery. Assembled Fathers! Such a decree as this means ossification—spiritual ossification—of the age we live in, and for this, if for no other reason, it should be thrown out!”

He paused; a dull, uneasy silence filled the room. The senators sat in consternation at the unheard-of audacity of the man, who could dare to defy Caesar’s omnipotence with such disinterested liberality.

“He is uttering his own death-warrant,” whispered Sextus Furius. Gradually a low murmur arose and swelled by degrees.

“Have you done?” asked the President, seeing that Cornelius Cinna gave no sign of resuming his seat.

“Allow me a few words more,” replied Cinna. “Do not be afraid, that my intention is merely to postpone your decision by digressions.[30] I only want to touch on one other point, which has perhaps escaped the notice of the noble Fathers. This law, which in accordance with my every conviction I feel bound to oppose, not only threatens to cripple the public mind; it will destroy all the peace and happiness of family life. Tale-telling and dishonorable espionage, to a very grave extent, will be the inevitable out-come—and of these, as it is, Rome needs no increase! A law, which offers a prize, as it were, to the informer—such a law, I say, is death to the morality and mutual confidence of the people. I have warned you! Do not calmly lend a hand in forging a weapon, which threatens thousands of peaceful citizens with death. Can you foresee, that no conditions will arise to turn its point, even against yourselves? You are masters of the cast only so long as the spear is in your own hands. Assembled Fathers, I am convinced that you will unanimously reject this measure which, on one hand, is superfluous and undignified, and, on the other, to the last degree dangerous—reject it, I say, to the honor and glory of the name of Rome!”

The impression made by this speech—which derived from the dignified presence, the sonorous voice and the impressive manner of the speaker an importance far beyond the mere meaning of the words—was so profound, that it fanned into brief flame the few sparks of the old Roman spirit, which still lurked here and there in the assembly. Shouts of approbation were audible on both sides. For a moment the grave features of Titus Claudius wore an expression of anxiety. But the cries of assent were few and scattered. On any other occasion Cornelius Cinna would have triumphed, but now only one voice could gain a hearing—the voice of fear. The effect of its eloquence was visible as the next names were called; the members announced, not without hesitation, that there was much in Cinna’s discourse which was amply justified, but that they must nevertheless cast their votes in favor of the decree, particularly as they felt assured that Titus Claudius, the real originator of the measure, would only have acted on a perfect knowledge of the state of affairs, and after the maturest deliberation. And indeed, the motives which the Flamen had assigned on former occasions, had by no means been nullified by Cornelius Cinna.

When four or five speakers had expressed themselves to this effect, in feeble and colorless language, it was the turn of Titus Claudius Mucianus himself. He rose with the lofty indifference of a man, who no longer has a doubt of the triumph of his cause. He abstained, almost too evidently, from all rhetorical effects. In a cold and strictly business-like address he recapitulated the points from which the government viewed the measure. Cornelius Cinna, he said, was entirely wrong, if he thought that its object was to fetter liberty of thought and belief. The whole matter bore a simply political aspect in the eyes of the government. He thanked the eloquent speaker, who had thrown so much light on the subject from the other side; such a dissertation always tended to enlightenment. At the same time, he hoped that the assembled Fathers would allow themselves to be guided rather by the force of solid argument, than by the dazzling light of a brilliant oratorical display. Then, step by step, he proceeded to demolish Cinna’s assertions, and it was with special emphasis, that he combatted the idea that the new law would conduce to espionage and informing; the measure—as the most superficial glance could detect—contained nothing to arouse suspicion on that score. Cornelius Cinna had altogether misunderstood its tendency. The speaker ended with a short but striking picture of the danger to society, which it was proposed to guard against, and appealed to the assembled Fathers, in the words of the old Roman text of warning: “Be on your guard, lest the Fatherland should suffer!”[31]

A thunder of applause filled the temple. The remaining senators renounced all expression of opinion, and the praetor proceeded to collect the votes by a show of hands.[32] The measure was passed against a minority of six. The exhausted senators rose and made their way homewards—only just in time for the usual supper-hour.

Quintus Claudius supped late and alone. He had spent the whole day in solitude in his room; gloomy and anxious forebodings tortured his soul. He eat but little, and then again withdrew—not even Blepyrus was admitted to his apartments. At about the beginning of the second vigil, Quintus threw on his toga and went out slowly into the moonless night. After a long walk he reached the coppice on the bank of the Almo, where Euterpe and Diphilus were waiting for him. An hour later the deed was done. Quintus was baptized by the eldest member of the congregation of Nazarenes.

It was nearly midnight, when he took his way homewards. The endless Appian Way was silent as he turned into it, and silent too was the busy city. It was not till he reached the Flavian amphitheatre, that he met any stir of life. There, standing by the fountain of the Meta Sudans, was a group of men, talking eagerly. They were discussing the event of the day—the edict just published against the Christians.

“There will be heaps and heaps of arena fights,” cried one; “the Subura swarms with Nazarenes.”

“Let them have it!” said another. “The last wild-beast fight was the most wretched affair; and when I sit there, in my newly-bleached toga,[33] blood is what I want!”

“Merciful Lord Jesus Christ!” murmured Quintus. “From this hour my only God! To Thy keeping I commend my life. And ah! protect him—that dear father, who never dreams how fearful is the darkness that shrouds his sight. Preserve him—my dear, dear father; and forgive him, O God—him and his fellows—for they know not what they do.”

CHAPTER III.

Domitian had not been present at the meeting of the Senate. He had gone to sleep late, and, not waking till long after sunrise, he remained in bed to receive his chamberlain, Parthenius, who came to announce to him that the plan of campaign against the proscribed sect was fully laid and ratified. This news entirely restored Caesar’s lost composure, and he came to breakfast in the best humor possible.

His spirits rose still higher, when Parthenius reported the results of his overtures to Barbillus. The priest of Isis had expressed himself ready to meet the Emperor’s wishes for a consideration of ninety thousand denarii. His co-operation was not to be had cheaper, since Barbillus had a tender conscience, and could not risk the wrath of Isis, the all-powerful, for less.

Domitian rubbed his hands, and a hideous, leering smile stole over his sallow face. His eyes sparkled scornfully under his lowering brow.

“By Cypris! a sly fox is this Barbillus! And will he pledge his word that the shy nymph...?”

“Do not be uneasy, my lord. Barbillus has planned such a piece of bewildering magic to play, that she will lose her head. You are to appear before her, mysteriously illuminated and with lightning flashing round you, in the form of the hawk-headed god, Osiris.[34]—All sorts of mystical effects are to be introduced.—Rely upon it, my lord, she is yours, if ever a mortal woman was conquered by an immortal god.”

“You have done well!” cried Caesar, enchanted. “How our noble Cinna would writhe, if he could know.... These conjurors are inexhaustible with their ingenious tricks. The strange thing is, that so much truth creeps in among so many lies. Who was it, that told you that Barbillus is a master of astrology?”

“Sextus Furius, to whom he foretold his brothers’ death.”

“I remember ... and the prophecy was verified?”

“To the very hour. The two men were in Gaul at the time, and no one here knew that they were ill. The elder died on the ides of February, and the younger two days later.”

Caesar’s face clouded, and he cast a sinister glance at Parthenius. Could it, indeed, be that the chamberlain did not know he was speaking treason?—could he so utterly have forgotten, what had happened to the soothsayer Ascletario? Domitian had expected a denial from the courtier, not a confirmation of the facts. Truly, even Parthenius, it would seem, had ceased to care for his sovereign’s favor! Even he was growing audacious and reckless.

Domitian involuntarily felt for the little wooden tablet which lay under his pillow; but Parthenius met his eye with a look of such perfect innocence, that Domitian felt a qualm of remorse. He held out his hand to the chamberlain and said, with an effort to be amiable:

“Thank you, my friend; your information will be useful. I have not yet decided whether I will appear at table, or indeed leave my rooms at all. But, in any case, do you be here in good time for the precious divine comedy in the evening.”

“As my sovereign commands.”

“Listen—stop!” cried Caesar, as Parthenius was going. “To-day, you know, Julia, my late brother’s daughter, is to be buried[35]....”

“I know, my lord!”

“Well ... I forgot to say ... her ashes are to be carried to the temple of the Flavia family;[36] the dignity of our race requires it. I beg of you to omit nothing, that is due to the Manes of the illustrious dead—such as Julia. I would have the people know and tell each other, how Domitian honors the daughter of the divine Titus.”

“I understand.”

And Parthenius went.

“I will watch him,” said Domitian to himself. “If he too.... No torture would be too severe for such a breach of faith.... Folly! His fate is so inseparably bound up with mine, that my fall must bring him down too.”

He slowly raised himself from the pillow, leaning on his right hand, and a slight shudder ran through him; he was cold. “The consequence of yesterday’s excitement,” he said to himself, drawing the coverlet closer round him. By Castor, but it is becoming absurd! Always the same fabric of the brain—that foolish, hideous figure, with its ghastly face and gaping wound!" And he pressed his hand over his eyes.

“It is ridiculous. Must everything on earth repeat itself? Nero, gory shade, I laugh you to scorn! Have I waded in blood? Have I set the immortal city in flames, and struck my lyre while the people howled in anguish? Have I murdered my own mother? Nay—I am a mild and merciful sovereign. Compared with Nero—a child, a lamb, a dove! Away! Why stand grinning at me there, horrid vision? You have long been dust and ashes.—Vanish, go, or I will strangle you!...”

He groaned and sank back on his cushions. His eyes were closed, but his hands were stretched out, stark, as if convulsed; his breath came hard and quickly, and his livid lips never ceased moving.

“It is he, it is he....” he stammered, sitting up again. “I see him, barefoot, his mantle torn, riding towards Phaon’s house.[37]—I hear the shouts of the soldiers in the camp close by.—They are cursing him.—His horse has shied—he is looking round—the Praetorians know his pale face.—Now he has leaped from his saddle, and is hiding in the bushes.—How he gasps! How thirsty he is—he is stooping over a puddle to drink!—They have reached the villa; there—he is trembling, his knees give way.—Here is a messenger from Rome bringing Phaon the news—the decision of the Senate. Traitors! Treason! Death by the hand of the executioner.—Hark! Horses!—the soldiers are coming out to take him.—Come, more merciful steel, and pierce this throbbing heart. Kill him, murder him, tear him limb from limb!—It is over, there he lies, stiff on his cloak, his eyes starting out of their sockets. His face is as pale as ashes.—Thus dies Nero!—Alas! and woe is me! Thus dies Domitian!”

A loud and piercing shriek; then the silence of the grave.

“Help, help!” cried the boy, who was on guard in the cubiculum. “Help—quick!”

It was Phaeton, Caesar’s favorite slave; he rushed forward to lift up the Emperor, who lay like one dead. His left arm hung helplessly over the edge of the bed; he had pushed aside his pillows, and with them, his wooden tablet which, as Phaeton pulled the cushions into place, fell with a clatter on to the floor. The lad stooped and picked it up, only just in time to save it from being trodden on by the other slaves, who came rushing in from all sides. He instinctively hid the piece of wood in his tunic. A moment later and the physician came in, who at once dismissed all unnecessary attendants, among them Phaeton, who was still trembling from the shock. Caesar, he said, must have absolute rest.

Phaeton, however, lingered; he wanted to know whether Caesar’s life was in danger, and it was not till the leech had reassured him on that point, that he was persuaded to quit the room and remain in the cavaedium close at hand. There he went to the south-western entrance, where two of the praetorian guard were keeping watch in shining armor. He sat down, squatting on the mosaic pavement, near a door which commanded a view over the Aventine. For a time he stared vacantly at the tall, stiff figures with their dazzling helmets and their calm, stern, weather-beaten faces. Then, with a yawn, he idly drew forth the wooden tablet. He could not read, and his eye wandered curiously down the close rows of curling or angular letters, which to him were signs far more mystical than the old Hebrew rolls of manuscripts, which he had seen his mother read. Then he fell to balancing the little board on his fingers, trying to support it on one corner, as he had seen Masthlion, the famous juggler do, out on the Field of Mars.

At this moment the heavy tread of Clodianus was heard approaching.[38] He had been requested by the chamberlain to visit the room where Julia was lying dead. The boy, with a dim sense of wrong-doing in thus playing tricks with the property of his imperial master, hastily hid the tablet in his tunic again. But the very promptness with which he did so attracted the adjutant’s attention.

“What are you hiding there?” he asked, beckoning the lad to him.

“Nothing, my lord—a little board....” stammered Phaeton. “Our lord and god is ill—he fainted; the bit of wood fell on the ground....”

“Show it to me.” The boy obeyed, trembling, for the adjutant’s voice had a growl in it of distant thunder. At the court of the Roman Emperor any one might, at any moment, happen to offend the majesty of Caesar beyond all forgiveness. The quaking youngster fully expected that the next words he should hear would be: