“That is well,” answered Domitia. “Parthenius, have you received my message from Eboracus?”
“No, lady.”
“Then read this,” she extended to him the wax tablets.
The chamberlain turned ash gray and trembled.
“Parthenius,” said Domitia, “it is no vain augury that lightning has struck the Temple of the Flavians, and driven Cæsar from his apartments. Let his place of rest be to-night in the room adjoining this—and—if he wakes—” she looked at the clepsydra, as at that moment with a click the wheel turned and Saturn moved his scythe—“there is but an hour in which the fate of more than yourself, of Lamia—of Entellus must be decided. Take the tablets.”
Scarce had she spoken, before quick steps were heard, and in a moment Domitian entered.
Parthenius hastily concealed the tablets by throwing a fold of his garment over the hand that held them. “Sire,” said he, “I have come to announce that thy chamber must be on this side.”
“Go thy way,” said Domitian roughly, “see to it that I have a bed brought at once. Hast heard, Domitia, the fire has fallen!”
“Sire,” said Parthenius, “I haste to obey and pray the Gods that in spite of thunder and lightning you may sleep sound and not wake.”
The Emperor walked to the clepsydra, and laughed scornfully. “The bolt of Jove has missed me,” said he. “The red-handed One made a mistake. I am wont to be in bed at this hour—by good luck, this night I was not. He has levelled his bolt at my pillow and burnt that—I am escaped scot-free. Now I have no further fear.”