The minutes dragged along with leaden slowness. The young man’s excited brain had lost all power to banish the most hideous thoughts; he could scarcely pray. He saw himself standing once more in the arena with Cornelia at his side, repeating the scene they had just rehearsed—till the end. This time he struck with less skill and success; the roaring beast crouched, sprang, he felt its claws in his flesh. He was lying on the earth, bleeding, mangled—yes, it was all true, only he felt no pain, only utter exhaustion. And the lion had clutched her too, Cornelia—beautiful, stately.—Then the monster was scared off from his bleeding prey, back into his cage. The servant was coming towards him with the harpoon—he could hear it crunching in the sand.
He started up, shuddering violently. It was a hideous dream; he had fallen asleep after so long being restless. But the crunching and grinding did not cease, and now he heard his name called in an eager, loving human voice. The grey gloom was bright with the glare of torches. Before him stood Caius Aurelius, with eight soldiers of the northern army.
“Quintus!” he cried, with open arms. “The gods be praised! Rise, noble Cornelia. Why do you gaze at me, as if you saw a ghost? I am Aurelius. I have brought you freedom.”
“Caius?” stammered Quintus, almost speechless with surprise and new-born hopes. “You here—tell me, what has happened?”
“Rome is ours. More than half the Praetorian guard have sworn fidelity to Cocceius Nerva. The Palatium was invested an hour ago. You shall hear it all, but oh! my senses are reeling...! Forward, men, make way.—Oh, Quintus I who could have foreseen all this, only last autumn...?”
Quintus, tottering like a drunken man, went up the steps into the sweet night air, and Cornelia followed, half carried by their preserver; but when she presently drew herself up and walked on in the torch-light, her black hair all loose and gently stirred by the wind, her dress torn and stained, and so stately in spite of it all, her presence touched the heart even of her rough guards.
In the Forum they found a tremendous uproar. A strong division of the troops guarded every entrance to the Palatium; others, and among them many of the Praetorian guard, were being sent to various parts of the city, to defend the most important strategic points against any plans of their opponents; at the same time the mob came streaming in from every quarter, shouting, shrieking and wasting its breath in questions.
Close by the Arch of Titus, Clodianus sat on horseback in the midst of a madly-excited crowd.
“Yes, citizens,” he shouted in stentorian tones, “the tyrant reigns no more. Too long indeed have we endured the humiliating yoke, but now we have shaken it off. Those, who have acted for you, are grateful to you for your unanimous and noble enthusiasm, and Nerva, Imperator will show his thankfulness by doubling the gifts of corn for the next year.”
“Long live Nerva, the father of his country!” they shouted in chorus. But it was not only the capricious proletariat, who joined in; more eager and joyful still were the better classes of the citizens, even up to the knights and the few senators who, in their uncertainty as to the issue, found courage enough to express their opinion.