“My dear, the ring is not lost. Domitian has it. By the foresight of the Gods, Sabinus removed it from his finger, and confided it to his nephew, before unhappy circumstances arose which might have led to the ring getting into the hands of any Cyrus or Dromo.”
“Was it to hear this that you sent for me?” asked Domitia sullenly.
“No, it was not. Your conscience must upbraid you. You have acted in an insensate manner. You have flouted and angered the son of him who in—perhaps half an hour—will be an Augustus, supreme in the state.”
“Mother, I do not like him.”
“Ye Gods of the Capitol!—confound them, by the way, they are all burnt! O Tellus and Terminus! Do you suppose we are to see and be courteous only to those whom we like? What cared I for that paragon of virtue, Flavius Sabinus, who talked to such an extent that I could not get in a word edgeways. But I gave him a nice little supper—and oysters from Britain, my best Falernian, and that ring of your father’s, because I thought he might be useful. And now Titus Flavius Domitianus is our guest—in hiding till matters are settled one way or the other—and you insult him to his face. It is not conduct worthy of your mother. You interfere with my plans.”
“What plans?”
“My dear child, Vespasian is old—about sixty I think, and has but two sons, of whom Domitian is the youngest. The elder, Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasianus has but a daughter. Do you not see? Do you not smell?”
“I do neither, mother.”
“More the pity. You sadly take after your father, who had no ambition. Give the old fellow ten years before he becomes a god; the eldest son, if the worst comes, may succeed and be Augustus for another ten, and then,—the second son, Domitian, will be prince. My dear, what opportunities! What gorgeous opportunities!”
“Opportunities for what?”