“Then perhaps you will say it is a fable, that Domitian—a second Nero—has killed his mistress by a kick?”
“Who says so?” cried Titus Claudius starting up.
“All Rome. You only, Father, seem to be ignorant of what has filled thousands with horror.”
“You heard it from Cinna.”
Quintus shrugged his shoulders.
“Be easy,” the priest went on; “I have it from Parthenius, that Julia died of her long illness.”
“Parthenius!” laughed Quintus scornfully.
“I am not justified in doubting his assertion, particularly in this instance, when it is in contradiction to such an impossible calumny. I myself have been intimate with Caesar long enough to know his calm nature, his equanimity, and self-command.”
“Yes, when he speaks to you; but every one knows that he wears a mask in your presence. You are, in fact, the only man in Rome, who can command his respect.”
“I should be a fool indeed to believe such a thing. I know full well, that hatred and calumny never sleep. The higher their prey, the more virulent is their attack. Beware, my son, of propagating such disgraceful reports; do not break the law which threatens the detractors of the sovereign with heavy punishment.”