Clodianus swore to Caesar by all the gods, that the treason which must evidently have been at work, should be tracked to earth and avenged. The guilty party must be some one in the Emperor’s immediate service. Was Domitian absolutely certain that the tablet, with the list of doomed names, had never been out of his own hands? To this Caesar replied, that he had kept the tablet about his person day and night; but Clodianus reminded him of the hour when he had swooned, throwing out a dark hint which served to cast his suspicion on the physician. Domitian, however, was more inclined to look for the traitor among the employés of the city-prefect, than in the palace itself. At any rate, the zeal shown by Clodianus in these circumstances made an admirable impression in his favor. The Emperor began to think he might have been mistaken, and to consider whether the last addition to the list on the tablet should not after all be erased.
Clodianus detected this revulsion of feeling with the eye of a clairvoyant, and it gave him extreme satisfaction, for it opened out the prospect for certain schemes, though he was not clear himself yet as to the details. When the pressure of business should allow him leisure, he would go to the villa on the road to Praeneste, intending to settle and confirm these details in concert with Stephanus.
In the course of the afternoon it was reported that Caius Aurelius, too, was one of the fugitives. Baucis brought this news to the high-priest’s house, when she returned from market in the Field of Mars.
Not long before Claudia had received a note from Aurelius. It was dated the day before, and had been written before their last meeting. It contained the explanation, that Aurelius had thrown in his lot with those who were scheming and hoping for liberty. Their schemes had been betrayed. He was flying now like a criminal, but he hoped, ere long, to return and find Rome free and happy.
Claudia had escaped with this letter to her own room, she knew only too well all it implied. She fancied she could already hear her father’s verdict, for his tenderness to his child must now inevitably give way to the inexorable severity of a state-official and Caesar’s faithful adherent.
The rest of the family had meanwhile rushed into agitated discussion of this utterly unexpected departure. They were sitting in one of the larger rooms opening out of the court-yard, not far from the very spot where Aurelius, the night before, had torn himself from his Claudia. Quintus and Cornelia were present, as well as the parents and Lucilia. They had waited till long past midnight for Cinna’s return, and had then parted in the utmost anxiety, for Aurelius’ hasty visit, and the mysterious warning he had written, left them to surmise the worst. Thus they met at an early hour at the high-priest’s house, whither each had come hoping for news and good counsel. Titus Claudius had, in fact, been informed of all that was known by Parthenius, and actually before he was up. He received Cornelia, who was in the highest excitement, with a mixture of severity and sympathy.
“I do not know all the motives,” he said solemnly, “that may have led to these measures on Caesar’s part. But so much as this seems to me certain: that this step was prompted by necessity for the preservation of the State. As an officer of State myself, and as the father of your betrothed husband, I can only advise you—and I mean it well—to have nothing farther to do with a proscribed man. I promise you I will do my best to induce Caesar to give up all farther pursuit of the fugitives, and to consider banishment from the Empire, or perhaps only from Italy, as sufficient punishment.”
So spoke Titus Claudius, and then no more was said about Cinna. In the discussion as to Aurelius, Cornelia could take part more calmly than the others. Her pride had been roused by the Flamen’s speech, and when this was the case, she was mistress of herself in all respects.
When Claudia, having recovered such composure as she could, returned to the sitting-room, a single timid glance at her father’s careworn face showed her, that his mind was already made up on the matter. His features revealed all the keen struggle and pain it cost him to inflict suffering on his daughter under the irresistible stress of circumstances; but, at the same time, she saw with perfect certainty that nothing—absolutely nothing—could change his idea of the necessity. His eye, which he kept calmly and immovably fixed on her, was so eloquent, that her cheek tingled, and she could hardly control herself so as not to throw herself sobbing into Lucilia’s arms.
“Forget that you ever loved such a man as Aurelius!” was what that sad gaze said to her. “I might have condescended to set aside the glory of my many centuries of ancestors and the dignity of my house, but never my honor as a guardian of the State. I might have sacrificed my pride—but not my duty. I could have borne to give my daughter to a youth of no renown, a mere provincial of obscure origin, hard as that would have been—but to a traitor! No, not if he wore the purple. Caius Aurelius is dead—dead to you, to me, to his country!”