“It would not do for you and Lamia to be married again. It would be a political error; it might be dangerous to us Flavians.”
“I should have supposed, in your brand-new divinity that a poor mouse like myself could not have scratched away any of the newly-laid-on gold leaf.”
“Domitia,” said Titus, who had resumed his walk, “be careful how you let that tongue act—it is a file, it has already removed some of the gilding.”
A smile broke out on his face at first inclined to darken.
“There! There!” said he, laughing; “I am not a fool. I know well enough what we were, as I feel what we have become. Caligula threw mud, the mud of Rome, into the lap of my grandfather, because he had not seen to the efficient scouring of the streets. It was ominous—the soil of Rome has been taken away from the divine race of Julius—and has been cast into the lap of us money-lenders, pettyfogging attorneys of Reate. Well! the Gods willed it, Domitia—it is necessary for us to make a display.”
“Push, as my mother would say.”
“Well—push—as you will it. But, understand, Domitia, though I am not ignorant of all this, I don’t like to have it thrown in my teeth; and my brother is more sensitive to this than myself. Domitia, I will do this for you. I will send for him, and see if I can induce him to part from you. I mistrust me,”—Titus smiled, looked at Domitia, with one finger stroked her cheek, and said,—“By the Gods! I do not wonder at it. I would be torn by wild horses myself rather than abandon you, had I been so fortunate——”
“Sire, so wicked——”
“Well, well! you must excuse Domitian. Love, they say, rules even the Gods, and is stronger than wine to turn men’s heads.”
He clapped his hands. A slave appeared. “Send hither the Cæsar,” he ordered. The slave bowed and withdrew.