When she came to the vestal Flavia she touched her robe with the pine cone. “Hail, priestess! In what world might thou and I be sisters?”
Flavia answered, touching with her fingers the diamonds that the thyrsus showered, “In the grave, Iras the dancer!” and laughed herself because she had answered apropos.
The dancer, flashing on, came at last to Valerian. She lifted her thyrsus. “Who is it? Who is it? I have seen him before, but not at banquets—”
“The general Valerian,” said one behind her.
“Valerian!” Iras the dancer stood still, seemed with some kind of shock to receive the name, then with a laugh she raised the thyrsus and holding it in both hands, crosswise above her head, danced away on yet swifter feet. But she had stood beside Valerian, and that one who had spoken had looked from face to face. And Valerian, by one of his most few friends, had been warned against that man that he was of the host of delators, a spy and informer.
After the dancer came in gladiators. The feasting men and women sank lower. The room seemed unsteadily lit, smelled of wine and blood. The flowers withered, speech became confused, meaningless, save that always it menaced good. Cæsar sent wine to Valerian, more wine and more. He must drink, though he saw that they would have him drunken and his tongue loosened. Three came about him and drove the talk to the legions and what, given word, a mind-endowed general might do. Cæsar’s cup-bearer brought him more wine. He strove to be wary in talk, but at last came a mist and he saw only that he was talking.... Came the last viand, the last red and golden wine, outside rose the dawn. And then without, in the misty garden of the Cæsars, the guests yet strayed, and yet there was revelling. But at last, with the rising sun, all might go home.
Two days and Valerian received an order to return to his country-house and there hold himself captive, while before the Senate was sifted a charge of betraying the Commonwealth. Valerian went and with him Valeria. It was the late summer, and the air was sultry and there were many thunder-storms with in between a sense of burdened waiting. Morn and eve, the two paced the terrace and looked to Rome afar in the plain. They had their slaves, but freedmen, clients of Valerian, came no more as they had done, obsequious, many as bees to a garden. And old friends did not come, and kindred did not come. Only two or three came privily, speaking not of their coming either before the visit or afterwards. Faustus the philosopher, now an old man, came more than once. And all who came and all who stayed away knew that bolts were being forged with which to slay Valerian. And they trembled for themselves who were his kin or acquaintance.
Valeria would have caught the bolts in her hands, directed them if she might to her bosom only, but there was no way. But all that knew knew that she, too, would be struck, blackened, and consumed. Always, Cæsar finally to ruin one ruined many.... When they had been at the country-house a month those who still had come came no more. They heard that kindred and friends were being thrown into prison. Faustus brought that news, and smiling said that hardly might he come again.
“Faustus, this world!”
“There are many things to be straightened. When we have straightened one, then must we straighten another.... If with all our will we could reach the centre we might straighten much at once. But that is Wisdom and few are wise!”