"Meanwhile you are the ruler of Rome," said Carinus to Manlius. "Let the fellow who writes my name come. Whatever you command, I command. Reign over my kingdom."
"And you over my heaven."
The slaves closed the purple curtains of the lectica, raised it on their shoulders, and withdrew with the Cæsar.
The trembling courtiers, with humble faces, gathered around the youth whom the Imperator's crazy whim had made for an hour the master of the world.
Manlius stretched himself comfortably upon the cushions of the imperial couch, sought among the throng of courtiers the man who was trembling most violently, and beckoned to him.
It was Marcius, the barber; by virtue of imperial favour, Præfectus Prætorio.
"You are the commander of the prætorians?" asked Manlius.
"Yes, my imperial master," stammered the barber, rolling his eyes.
Manlius laughed.
"So you really consider me the Cæsar? If I were the Imperator, I would have you beheaded because you mocked at my face; but call me your friend. I know your merits."