"This battle will ruin the enemy of Rome."
True, he did not say whom he considered the enemy of Rome—whether Diocletian or Carinus.
At last the imperial procession reached Cybele's temple. Amid a deafening uproar of drums and blaring trumpets, the frantic priestesses were dancing in the open portico, stabbing their bodies with knives, muttering with foaming lips incomprehensible words, and whirling around till, overcome by giddiness, they fell to the floor.
Suddenly a shriek, shriller, more terrible than any other sound in this inharmonious uproar, rang above the din; a shriek so piercing, so heart-rending, that every one gazed trembling in the direction of the sound.
A woman's tall figure stood beneath the pillars; a long white mantle, which she clutched with both hands, floated from her head to her feet.
"Woe betide thee, Rome! Woe betide ye, Roman people! Woe betide thee, Imperator of Rome!"
The woman came out into the portico and, as she fixed her cold, expressionless eyes upon the throng, Carinus, seized with horror, grasped the hand of Manlius, who stood by his side.
"That is Glyceria."
Manlius also shrank back in terror.
The madwoman, with the face of a prophetess, stood upon the steps of the temple.