CHAPTER VIII.
THE LOWER STOOL.
“Come now!” said the Emperor, rising from his seat; “it is time that we should eat. My lady Longina, may it please you to sup with us?”
There was a malevolent glance in his pale watery eye. But Domitia did not see it, she looked at him as little as might be.
She rose at once. So also did Julia, the daughter of Titus, and the Emperor and his train left the circus; but as they withdrew there rose ringing cheers, the people standing on their benches and applauding—not the Cæsar, the Augustus, the Imperator—but her, Domitia, the blue. The people’s own true blue. He heard it, and ground his teeth—his face waxed red as blood. Domitia heard it, and her heart filled and her eyes brimmed with tears.
Then Domitian turned and looked at her savagely, as a dog might look at another against which it was meditating an onslaught, and said:—
“Remove that blue—I hate it, and come to the banquet.” Then with an ugly leer—“I have sent for the actor to amuse you.”
“What actor?”
“Paris, madam, the inimitable, the admired Paris, that he may recite from Greek plays to our pleasure. These Greek tragedians are at a discount. Our people do not care for the dismals. But they are wrong, do not estimate true art. You do that really! You like tragedy! and tragedy you shall have, I warrant you.”
The blood mounted to the brow of Domitia at the sneers and covert insinuations. Paris! what was Paris to her? what but the struggling husband of Glyceria? Was it impossible for her to do a kind act, to give expansion to her heart, without misinterpretation, without the certainty of incurring outrage?
She withdrew to her apartments and changed her dress, from the blue to white with purple stripe and fringes. Then she entered the triclinium where the meal was spread.