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: