“What can I do for thee, Domitia?” asked Titus, who was pacing the room; he halted before the young wife of his brother, who was kneeling on the mosaic floor.

She had taken advantage of her introduction into the Imperial palace to make an appeal to Titus, now Emperor. She had not been allowed to appear there during the reign of Vespasian.

Titus was a tall, solidly built man, with the neck of a bull; he had the same vulgarity of aspect that characterized both his father and brother, and which was also conspicuous in his daughter Julia. The whole Flavian family looked, what it was, of ignoble origin,—there was none of the splendid beauty that belonged to Augustus, and to the Claudian family that succeeded. Their features were fleshy and coarse, their movements without grace, their address without dignity.

If they attempted to be gracious, they spoiled the graciousness by clumsiness in the act; if they did a generous thing, it carried its shadow of meanness trailing behind it.

Titus had not borne a good character before his elevation to the purple. He had indulged in coarse vices, had shown himself callous toward human suffering. Yet there was in his muddy nature a spark of good [pg 216]feeling, a desire to do what was right, a rough sense of justice and much family affection.

It was a disappointment to him that he had but one child, a daughter, a gaunt, stupid girl, big-boned, amiable and ugly.

He knew that Domitian, his younger brother, would in all probability succeed him, but he also was childless. Next to him, the nearest of male kin, were the sons of that Flavius Sabinus, who had been butchered by the Vitellians, and their names were Sabinus and Clemens.

The former was much liked by the people, he was an upright grave man. The second was regarded with distrust, as a Christian. It was not the fact of his following a strange religion that gave offence. To that Romans were supremely indifferent, but that which they could not understand and allow was a man withdrawing himself from the public service, the noblest avocation of a man, because he scrupled to worship the image of the Emperor, and to swear by his genius. They regarded this as a mere excuse to cover inertness of character, and ignobility of mind.

For the like reason, Christians could not attend public banquets or go to private entertainments as the homage done to the gods, and the idolatrous offerings associated with them, stood in their way. The profession of Christianity, accordingly, not only debarred from the public service, but interfered with social amenities. Such withdrawal from public social life the Romans could not understand, and they attributed this conduct to a morbid hatred entertained by the Christians for their fellow-men.

The public shows were either brutal or licentious. The Christians equally refused to be present at the gladiato[pg 217]rial combats and at the coarse theatrical representations of broad comedy and low buffoonery. This also was considered as indicative of a gloomy and unamiable spirit.

There were indeed heathen men who loathed the frightful butchery in the arena, such was the Emperor Tiberius,—and Pliny in his letters shows us that to some men of his time they were disgusting, but nevertheless they attended these exhibitions, as a public duty, and contented themselves with expressing objection to them privately. The objection was founded on taste, not principle, and therefore called for no public expression of reprobation.

Clemens was quite out of the question as a successor. If he was too full of scruple to take a prÆtorship, he was certainly unfit to be an emperor. Not so Flavius Sabinus his elder brother. Him accordingly, Domitian looked upon with jealousy.

“What can I do for thee?” again asked Titus, and his heavy face assumed a kindly expression; “my child, I know that thou hast had trouble and art mated to a fellow with a gloomy, uncertain humor; but what has been done cannot be undone——”

“Pardon me,” interrupted Domitia, “it is that I desire; let me be separated from him. I never, never desired to leave my true husband, Lamia, I was snatched away by violence—let me go back.”

“What! to Lamia! That will hardly do. Would he have thee?”

“Tainted by union with Domitian, perhaps not!” exclaimed Domitia fiercely. “Right indeed—he would not.”

“Nay, nay,” said Titus, his brow clouding, “such a word as that is impious, and in another would be trea[pg 218]son. Domitia, you have a bitter tongue. I have heard my brother say as much. But I cannot think that Lamia would dare to receive thee again after having been the wife of a Flavian prince.”

Domitia’s lip curled, but she said nothing. These upstart Flavians made a brag of their consequence.

“Then,” said she, “let me go to my old home at Gabii. I have lived in seclusion enough at Albanum to find Gabii in the current of life—and my mother and her many friends will come there anon. Let me go. Let there be a divorce—and I will go home and paddle on the lake and pick flowers and seek to be heard of no more.”

“It would not do for you and Lamia to be married again. It would be a political error; it might be dangerous to us Flavians.”

“I should have supposed, in your brand-new divinity that a poor mouse like myself could not have scratched away any of the newly-laid-on gold leaf.”

“Domitia,” said Titus, who had resumed his walk, “be careful how you let that tongue act—it is a file, it has already removed some of the gilding.”

A smile broke out on his face at first inclined to darken.

“There! There!” said he, laughing; “I am not a fool. I know well enough what we were, as I feel what we have become. Caligula threw mud, the mud of Rome, into the lap of my grandfather, because he had not seen to the efficient scouring of the streets. It was ominous—the soil of Rome has been taken away from the divine race of Julius—and has been cast into the lap of us money-lenders, pettyfogging attorneys of Reate. Well! the Gods willed it, Domitia—it is necessary for us to make a display.”