He now made an effort to reach the doorway; and the steward, holding him, strove to wrench away the dagger and inflict a mortal wound. But Domitian, aware of his object, with his bleeding hand retained his grasp of the blade.
All at once, the Emperor let go his hold, and seizing the steward by the head drove his thumbs into his eyes.
Stephanus instantly dropped the dagger in his attempt to save himself from being blinded.
The two men twisted and writhed in grapple with each other. The freedman was a powerful man—it was for this reason he had been sent to despatch the prince. But Domitian was battling for his life. Though his legs were thin and out of proportion to his body, he was a strong man—he had ever maintained his vigor by exercise of the muscles and had never weakened himself by excess in eating and drinking.
By a happy turn he flung Stephanus, but clasped by him fell with him on the floor.
And now the two men rolled and tossed in a tangled mass together. Their snorts and gasps and the bestial growl of rage filled the room.
“Quick! Domitia—the sword! At once—the sword—the sword!” said the Emperor. He spoke in gulps and gasps.
He had Stephanus under him; his knee was on his chest and his hand, the gashed left hand flowing with blood, contracted the prostrate man’s throat.
“Domitia! the sword!”
