“It is well. You will copy out the list—at once. The tablet I myself will keep. When Rome is saved, I will hang it up in the temple of Jupiter.”
Clodianus took his writing implements out of the folds of his tunic.
“Perhaps,” the Emperor added with a meaning smile.—“Perhaps another name or two may occur to me.” And he hid the strip of lime-wood in his bosom.
“And now,” he continued, “make your plans. I will not listen to anything till you can say to me: all is over; the deed is done. You know how cautiously, how warily you must proceed. Remember, your existence too is endangered; when a tree falls, the branches fall with it.—Go, my friends. If you triumph, I will endow you with power above all other mortals, and in splendor and honors you shall be equal with myself. I will name you my brothers.”
He sank exhausted on to a chair; Parthenius and Clodianus left the room.
“Yes, yes!” muttered Domitian between his teeth, as the door closed behind the two men; “one is yet wanting on the list of the elect!”
He drew forth the tablet, and, with an indescribable grimace of hatred, wrote at the end of the long list of names: “Clodianus.”
“Wait awhile, my friend! This task you shall be allowed to finish—but then—it is not well, when a sapling grows too proudly skywards.”