"To the Cæsar, dear heart," he said simply; "an he is a fugitive he hath need of friends: an he is afraid, he hath need of courage."
"Thou'lt not go to him, dear lord," she exclaimed indignantly, and her hands, strong and firm, fastened themselves on his arm. "A coward, I tell thee ... a madman ... a tyrant ..."
"The Cæsar, Augusta," he retorted; "deign to let me go to him."
"Thou'rt mad, Taurus Antinor! Fever is in thy veins and doth cloud the clearness of thy brain.... Hast not heard the people? They vow vengeance on him.... 'Tis on thee they call ... thou art their chosen, their anointed; the people call to thee. It is thou whom they acclaim."
"To-morrow," he said more gently, "they will have forgotten their disloyalty. To-morrow they will have forgotten me ... they will think me dead ... dead will I be to them to-morrow."
"Nay! but to-day," she urged, "to-day is thine and mine.... The praetorian praefect is here and the others ... the choice rests with me and my choice is made.... Rome even now rings from end to end with thy name: 'Hail Taurus Antinor Cæsar! Hail!' ... Hast no ambition?" she cried, for at her words he had remained cold and still.
"None," he replied gently, "but so to help the Cæsar, that he may gain the love of his people by acts of grace and mercy, and to see the wings of peace once more spread over the seven hills of Rome."
With a firm yet exquisitely tender touch he took her clinging hands in his, forcing her to release her grip on his arm. On her trembling fingers then he pressed a burning, lingering kiss.
"Thou art not going!" she cried.
"To the Cæsar, O my soul! He hath need of me! He has mine oath; my loyalty is his."