Besides being shocked, I was terrified, even numb with terror. I knew that Maternus would never believe me if I indicated this gaping zany and asserted that it was our Emperor: yet Maternus had such an uncanny power of interpreting the expression of face of any interlocutor that I dreaded to tell him anything save the exact truth. I was in a dilemma, equally afraid to tell the truth, for fear the improbability of it would infuriate Maternus and convince him of my treachery; or to take the obvious course, for fear some subtle shade of my tone or look might similarly impel him to stab me.
As the convoy passed Maternus whispered, softly and unhurriedly:
"Which is he?"
In my panic I chose the less dangerous alternative. Pulto was by far the most Imperial figure in the throng; his great height, the fine poise of his head, his royal bearing, his regal expression, his stately port, all contributed to make him dominate the assemblage. I felt that Maternus might believe him Commodus and could never believe Commodus an Emperor or even a noble.
I indicated Pulto, haughty, dignified, handsome and magnificently habited.
Maternus, apparently, believed me implicitly.
He whispered again.
"I am sure to get him when they come round again. Watch for my blow. If I land or if I am seized, fend for yourself. Good luck and Mercury be good to both of us. Farewell."
As the procession came round again I could hear my heart thump; but, to my gaze, Maternus, handsome in his imitation Praetorian uniform, appeared the personification of calmness.
When again the Imperial zany and his fan-bearers and posturing eunuchs had passed us and the High Priest and his Acolytes were opposite us, Maternus slipped forward between two of the Praetorians of the escort.