“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.