“You see how enthusiastically I am on your side.
“But there is much to be considered.
“If this were a question of judging a two-year-old filly I’d need no man’s advice and I’d listen to no man’s opinion. I’m better fitted to judge a horse than any man alive. It would be the same if it were a question of refereeing a sword-bout or a boxing-mill or a wrestling-match or anything of the kind. I know all about such things and I know that I am a judge superior to anybody on earth. I’m a born all-round athlete and everybody knows it and recognizes me as a past master.
“But as an Emperor, as Chief Pontiff, such is not at all the case. I feel a fumbler, a bungler. I grope. I suspect that the judgment of my advisers is better than mine. What is worse, I know that they think so. I am surrounded by men pre-eminent in their specialties, who look on me as a green boy placed by mere chance in a position which I fail to fill adequately. They watch me like hawks, they expect to see me blunder, they raise eyebrows at each other, they exchange glances. It rattles me. I wish I had Alexander’s nerve. He was as young as I am and he brooked no opposition, but rammed his opinions down his councillors’ throats from the hour when he became King. But I haven’t his nerve, not by a long shot. I had as good teachers as he had, too. But, Hercules be good to me, I never could learn anything out of a book.
“As a charioteer, or a swordsman I’m as confident as a lion. As an Emperor I’m as cowardly as a jackal. It’s the effect of the prophecies and auguries and oracles and such. They all hint at my impairing the prosperity of the Republic or diminishing the power of the Empire. It gallies me when I see two old bald heads wink at each other; I know they are thinking:
“‘What did I tell you! Here’s this young fool ruining Rome, just as the oracle prophesies.’ It gets on my nerves.
“I daren’t decide the matter on my own judgment.
“Besides, there’s the danger of assassination hanging over me. All the men who have tried so far have been highly educated magnates of lofty principles. They seem to feel I am an unworthy Prince and that to kill me would be a service to the state. It galls me to think of it, and me doing my best for the Republic and the Empire, denying myself hours of pleasure daily, missing races and all kinds of contests and toiling over documents and estimates and statistics. But it is true. If I decide this case of yours, ten to one any number of self-righteous nobles will say to themselves:
“‘Here is this lout on the way to destroy the foundations of Rome’s greatness. Rome must be saved from him. My duty is clear. He must be put out of the way.’ Nice situation for me. I dare not let loose any such possible fanaticism for my own destruction.
“And apart from any qualms about my qualifications to judge, apart from any dread of the consequences to myself, of absolving you, there is my sense of duty to Rome. Here are these cursed ambiguous oracles hinting some harm to Rome, mentioning fire and the Temple of Vesta and the Palladium. Perhaps what they mean is just the possible wrath of Vesta at an unworthy priestess. How can I tell?