Many years yet may Caesar keep the feast of Minerva[17]
Held on the Alban Hill; and confer the victor’s wreath
Twined of oak-leaves, the prize to crown the worthiest singer.
Soon may he hallow the secular games with offerings and gifts!
Great is the boon we ask; but from the gods in heaven
Such a boon is due to Caesar, the god upon earth.[18]”
The melodious strain soared up from the temple of Saturn to the towering Palatium beyond.
But he, to whom the homage was offered, heard it not. Shut up with Clodianus and Parthenius, he was writing down on a wooden tablet the names of those, whom he devoted to death.[19] Parthenius read them out in a low voice, and the Emperor assented; then the chamberlain wrote down another list of names, and again they were discussed in an undertone. Domitian’s face meanwhile grew more and more like that of a jaguar, lurking in ambush to pounce on his prey.
“And you, Clodianus,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “Do not you know of any reprobate wretch, who deserves to die?” He fixed his eye on the soldier’s face.
“No, my lord,” said the adjutant. “It seems to me, that you have not overlooked one.”