"Domine, domine!" cried the trembling freedman; but Cæsar swept on:—
"Don't go from the room! I am desperate to-night. I may lay violent hands on myself. Why should I not ask you for a poisoned dagger?"
Antiochus cowered at his master's feet.
"Yes, why not? What have I to gain by living? I have won some little fame. I have conquered all Gaul. I have invaded Britain. I have made the Germans tremble. Life is an evil dream, a nightmare, a frightful delusion. Death is real. Sleep—sleep—forever sleep! No care, no ambition, no vexation, no anger, no sorrow. Cornelia, the wife of my love, is asleep. Julia is asleep. All that I loved sleep. Why not I also?"
"Domine, speak not so!" and Antiochus clasped the proconsul's knees.
Cæsar bent down and lifted him up by the hand. When he spoke again, the tone was entirely changed.
"Old friend, you have known me; have loved me. You were my pedagogue[151] when I went to school at Rome. You taught me to ride and fence and wrestle. You aided me to escape the myrmidons of Sulla. You were with me in Greece. You shared my joy in my political successes, my triumphs in the field. And now what am I to do? You know the last advices from Rome; you know the determination of the consuls to work my ruin. To-day no news has come at all, and for us no news is the worst of news."
"Domine," said Antiochus, wiping his eyes, "I cannot dream that the Senate and Pompeius will deny you your right to the second consulship."
"But if they do? You know what Curio reports. What then?"
Antiochus shook his head.