“Rome does. The Roman rabble will not have it so. You have been familiar with the base and vile multitude. Can’t think how you could do it! However, it has succeeded this time and turned out a good move, for the people are clamorous for your return. The Augustus is but recently proclaimed and allegiance is still fresh—and I believe his cousin Ursus has been at him to have you back so as to humor the public.”
“Yet, if I refuse to gratify him.”
“Then, my dear, of course, it will be a pity, and all that sort of thing; but they all do it, and it must be right. The Augustus would prefer not to use severity—but if severe he must be, he will put down this disturbance with a hand of iron. He bears no actor’s sword, the blade of which is innocuous. I will call in Messalinus. He will tell you more.”
She clapped her hands; in obedience to her order a slave went outside the villa, and presently returned with the blind man.
He entered, working his sharp nose about, and then made a cringing bow towards the wall—not knowing where stood Domitia.
“Catullus Messalinus,” said Duilia, “have the goodness to inform my daughter of the intentions of the Augustus relative to the rabble in the Insula of Castor and Pollux, whence all the agitation proceeds.”
“Madam,” said the blind informer, “my god-like prince has already given command to clear the streets by means of the prætorian swords. As to that herd in the block of Castor and Pollux, they are reserved for condign punishment, unless my dear lady return at once. They will all—men, women and children, be driven into the circus. There are a pair of British war chariots, with scythes affixed to the axles, and the green drivers will be commanded to hustle round the ring at full speed among this rebellious rabble, to trample them down, and mow them as barley with the scythes—till not one remains alive as a seed of disaffection. What I say is—if a thing has to be done, do it thoroughly. It is true kindness in the end. Of course some must suffer, and one may praise the Gods that in this case it is only the common people.”
“The common people,” gasped Domitia.
Her eyes were glazed with horror. She saw the Insula, its crowds of busy, kindly, happy people, so good to one another, so affectionate to Glyceria, so grateful to her for visiting among them. And it was she, she by winning their love who was bringing this punishment upon them. In their blind, foolish way, they had misconceived her flight, and in their blind and stupid way, had resented an imaginary wrong offered to her, and because of their generous championship—they must suffer.
With bursting heart, and with a scalding rush of tears over her cheeks, Domitia extended her hand to her mother:—