“Then, madam, the clouds of night must have got into your brain. Do you not see that you are running a very slight risk. None suspect that he is in concealment here, as I smuggled him into the house.”
“There are my slaves.”
“They regard him as a priest escaping from the fire and the siege,” said the soothsayer. He continued—“Before morning the Illyrian legions will have arrived in Rome. Do you suppose the German bodyguard can stand against them? What other troops has Vitellius to fall back on? None—he is deserted. His cause is fatally smitten. By to-morrow evening he will be dead, cast down the Gemonian stair. Vespasian will be proclaimed in the Forum. Your risk will be at an end, and you will have obtained the lasting gratitude of the Imperial father, who will do anything you desire, to show his thankfulness to you for having saved the life of his son.”
“There is something in that,” said Duilia.
“And suppose now that Domitian is here, that you bid your slaves eject him, and he falls into the hands of Vitellius, how will you be regarded by the Flavian family? Do you not suppose that you will be the first to suffer the resentment of the Augustus?”
“There is a good deal in that,” said Duilia, to which the Magus said,—
“I have no fear of betrayal from any in the house save Senecio, that owl-like philosopher. He is not like the slaves, he may suspect, and trip me up.”
“My good Elymas,” interrupted Duilia, “do not concern yourself about him. He is not a man to chew nutshells when he can munch kernels.”
“Domitian is in my apartment, will you see him, lady?”
“By all means. I have a notion. Go, fetch Domitia, bring her down there to me.”