Domitian glanced meaningly at Parthenius, and he spoke with a sugared smile.
“Our clemency,” he said, “is never weary of obliging our friends. When so meritorious an official expresses a wish or a request, his sovereign must grant it—if it can possibly be reconciled with his duties and the prosperity of the State. It is well! I will run the risk of being accused of undue partiality, and have the girl held in custody here, in the Palatium, with all the respect due to her. She will hardly feel her imprisonment even as a check upon her freedom; only she must on no consideration quit the apartments I shall assign to her. You see, my worthy friend, how truly Domitian inclines to leniency.[100] Nay more, I will endeavor to mitigate the severity of Quintus’ incarceration. Only, do not ask more than I ought to grant.”
“I thank you,” said Claudius, drawing himself up. “I am glad you consent to be lenient with Cornelia. But, as regards my son—no, my lord; the horrors of imprisonment are my last hope. Solitude, misery, hunger—by these, if at all, his proud spirit may be broken. If this should be the result, if he repents of his errors and does due penance—then indeed I will advance a claim on the mercy of the Ruler of the world.”
Caesar dismissed him, and the high-priest, utterly exhausted by the tension of this brief interview, hurried home, and shut himself up in his own study. There was a bitter distrust lurking in his mind, like the after-taste of some nauseous draught. Caesar had, at last, been gracious. And yet—that first impression was ineffaceable. Here, in the privacy of home, he felt all that was wounding in that reception more keenly than at the moment. A strange spasm in his throat seemed to choke him, a dull headache weighed upon his brow, and the blood throbbed in his temples. He had been pacing the room, but suddenly his knees gave way, he dropped into a chair, and all grew dark before his eyes. But presently he staggered to his feet.
“I shall be ill,” he said to himself. “Hold up, miserable body! your task is not yet ended! You must not and shall not give way, till the last resources have been tried, and the last hope is dead.”
And the mere will of this man of iron was strong enough at this appeal to seem to work a miracle. Titus Claudius was firmer, calmer, and stronger at once, and a draught of icy-cold water completely restored his powers.
He went to join Octavia, to inform her as to the issue of his efforts. He found her alone; but in the adjoining room, with the door half open, Baucis was sitting and chattering, it would seem to herself. The priest closed the door and told his story, and his manner and way of speaking were reassuring. As he spoke the name of Quintus, Octavia sighed deeply, but her looks showed that she had not yet given up her hope of a happy ending to their trouble. When her husband had done speaking, she went up to him with the gentle and almost childlike reverence with which she always treated him, and took his hand.
“My dearest,” she said, looking at him through her tears, “what have you not had to suffer in these dreadful times of sorrow and terror! If only I could relieve you of the whole burden of anxiety! We women succumb and bend, and the weight is less intolerable. But you—proud, unyielding, you hold up your head and stiffen your neck and suffer doubly.”
Titus Claudius embraced her in silence, and she leaned her head on his shoulder and wept. He gently smoothed her still abundant hair and said, half-unconsciously: “Save your tears, Octavia! save your tears....”
“You will need them in a worse hour than this,” he would have added, but he realized what he was saying in time to check himself. He clasped her more closely and only saying: “Farewell for the present,” he turned to leave the room.