Domitian signed to table—Julia, with a flutter of clumsy timidity, shrank from the place of honor, and looked hesitatingly at her sister-in-law, who without a word seated herself on the stool indicated by the Emperor. There was no vulgar pride, no ambition in the daughter of Titus.
The guests looked at each other, as Julia was forced by the command of her uncle to recline on the couch properly belonging to his wife, and whispered to each other.
“What, what? Who is where?” asked the ferret-faced Messalinus. “What has been done? Here, Lycus,” to a slave, who always attended him, “Tell me, what has been done. In my ear, quick, I burn to know.”
Something was communicated in an undertone, and Messalinus broke into a cackle, that he quickly smothered—
“That is admirable, great and god-like is our prince! As a Jew physician said to me, he sets down one and setteth up another, at his pleasure. That is divine caprice. The Gods alone can act without having to account for what they do. I like it—vastly.”
And now at once the sycophant herd began to pay their addresses to Julia, and to neglect Domitia. The former was overloaded with flattery, her every word was repeated, passed on from one to another, as though oracular. Domitian, conspicuously and purposely ignored his wife made to sit at his feet; and raising himself on the left elbow upon his pulvinar, or cushion of gold brocade, talked with his niece, who also reclined instead of sitting.
Domitia remained silent with lowered eyes, carnations flowered in her cheeks. She made no attempt to speak; eat she could not. She felt the slight. Her pride was cut to the quick. The humiliation, before such as Messalinus was numbing. She would have endured being ordered to execution, she would have arranged her hair with alacrity, for the bowstring that would have finished her troubles, but this outrage before members of the court, before the imperial slaves,—and the knowledge that it would be the talk on the morrow of Roman society, covered her with confusion, and filled her soul with wrath, for she had pride—not a little.
Ursus, a kinsman of the Emperor, an elderly man, of good character and upright walk, was near her. He alone seemed to feel the indignity put upon the Empress. His eyes, full of pity, rested on her, and he waited an opportunity to speak to her unheard by others. Then he said, turning his head towards Domitia,—
“Lady, recall the fable of the oak and the bulrush. Humor the prince and you can do with him what you will. Believe me, and I speak sincerely,—he loves you still, loves you madly—but you repel him and that offends his pride. All things are his, in earth,—I may almost say in heaven—and he cannot endure that one frail woman’s heart should alone be denied him.”
“There are certain waters,” answered Domitia, “that turn to stone whatever is exposed to them—even a bird’s feather. It is as though I had been subjected to this treatment. My heart is petrified.”