Palaemon forced a few drops of Samian wine,[178] between the sufferer’s livid lips, and then seating himself on a chair at the foot of the bed, he kept his eyes fixed on the senseless form.
"Courage, my child!"[179] said, as he caught sight of Claudia’s tearful face. “He knew him, and that is everything. That will be better medicine, than all the herbs and decoctions known to our art. See, he is already breathing more quietly and regularly—that is not a swoon, it is sleep. If he does not sink from mere weakness, this sleep will check the violence of the fever and save his life. Open the door, daughter; quite wide, that the fresh spring air may come in. Baucis, do you go and fill a bowl with snow-water and wet a handkerchief—I will lay it on his forehead, and that will cool him. But make no noise, not a sound—lest you should wake him.”
A delightful breath of roses was wafted into the room, as Claudia softly opened the door, and in a few minutes Baucis had brought the cold water. The cooling application evidently had a soothing effect on the sleeping man. He sighed deeply and turned on his side; his features relaxed, and he slept soundly and easily.
Presently, outside in the colonnade, appeared Caius Aurelius; he glanced into the sick-room, asking for a report. Claudia rose and went to meet him, smiling through her tears; regardless of Palaemon’s presence, she threw her arms round her lover and laid her head on his shoulder with a deep sigh of relief. “He will live,” she whispered, looking up in his face; “only look how quietly and peacefully he is sleeping.”
“Jupiter be praised! Oh! my darling, what have we not gone through those last few months!”
“More than we could have borne, if it had not been for our love.”
He kissed her, looked once more at the sick man, and left her.
The sun sank behind Mons Janiculus, and the worn-out Flamen still lay in his death-like sleep. About two hours before midnight he moved and asked for Quintus. Claudia, who had not quitted him, bent over him and said gently:
“He is safe, Father, you know,” and her father looked up at her with a beatific smile. Then he asked for something to drink, greedily emptied a cup of water with fruit syrup, and at once fell asleep again. When day began to break, Palaemon, who had taken some hours’ rest in the adjoining room, sent Claudia to lie down. In all human probability the danger was now over, and Claudia obeyed, for she could scarcely hold up her head.
The sun rose in a cloudless sky—the first day of freedom in redeemed and regenerate Rome. The people set to work on all hands, to prepare a worthy welcome for the new Emperor, the gentle and high-souled Nerva, who was expected to arrive the following morning. Every arch of triumph, every colonnade, every temple was decked with garlands. Rome was like one vast festal hall. The Praetorian guard and the soldiers of the city-garrison marched in noisy troops through the streets, to overturn the statues of Domitian and to set up hastily-modelled images of Nerva in their stead.