“Come now!” said the Emperor, rising from his seat; “it is time that we should eat. My lady Longina, may it please you to sup with us?”

There was a malevolent glance in his pale watery eye. But Domitia did not see it, she looked at him as little as might be.

She rose at once. So also did Julia, the daughter of Titus, and the Emperor and his train left the circus; but as they withdrew there rose ringing cheers, the people standing on their benches and applauding—not the CÆsar, the Augustus, the Imperator—but her, Domitia, the blue. The people’s own true blue. He heard it, and ground his teeth—his face waxed red as blood. Domitia heard it, and her heart filled and her eyes brimmed with tears.

Then Domitian turned and looked at her savagely, as a dog might look at another against which it was meditating an onslaught, and said:—

“Remove that blue—I hate it, and come to the banquet.” Then with an ugly leer—“I have sent for the actor to amuse you.”

“What actor?”

“Paris, madam, the inimitable, the admired Paris, that he may recite from Greek plays to our pleasure. These Greek tragedians are at a discount. Our people do not care for the dismals. But they are wrong, do [pg 272]not estimate true art. You do that really! You like tragedy! and tragedy you shall have, I warrant you.”

The blood mounted to the brow of Domitia at the sneers and covert insinuations. Paris! what was Paris to her? what but the struggling husband of Glyceria? Was it impossible for her to do a kind act, to give expansion to her heart, without misinterpretation, without the certainty of incurring outrage?

She withdrew to her apartments and changed her dress, from the blue to white with purple stripe and fringes. Then she entered the triclinium where the meal was spread.

Domitian was already there, together with Julia, Messalinus, Ursus, and some other friends. The Emperor, standing apart from the latter, said with a sneer to Domitia,—

“So you have shed your blue—a cloud has passed over the azure! That is well. And now, madam, I granted you the first place at the games, in the circus, to humor the people; but in my palace it shall be as I will, not as they. Julia shall take the precedence, and she shall occupy the first position at table, and everywhere. She is the daughter of the God Titus, granddaughter of the God Vespasian-”

“And great grand-daughter of the Commissioner of Nuisances.”

“Silence,” roared Domitian, “she has the sacred Flavian blood, she is of Divine race, and shall sit by me, recline by me, in the position of honor, and you occupy a stool at my feet. Julia and I will have a lectisternium of the Gods! Am not I divine?—and she divine?”

“Certainly,” answered Domitia, “she is the daughter of a victor who has triumphed, I the wife of a man who [pg 273]will filch laurels from his generals, and himself has never seen a battle.”

Domitian clenched his teeth and hands, and glared at her.

“I wish to the Gods I could find it in my heart to have thee strangled, thou demon cat.”

“I can understand that, having let out the divine blood of the Flavii from the throat of your cousin Sabinus, you would stoop to me.”

“What—what—what is this?” exclaimed Messalinus, thrusting his pointed face in the direction of the prince and Domitia; he scented an altercation.

As for her—she wondered at herself, having the courage to defy the Lord of the World. She could not keep down the disgust, the hatred she felt for the man who had wrecked her life, it must out, and she valued not her life sufficiently to deny herself the gratification of throwing off her mind the taunts that rose in it, and lodged on her tongue.

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 [pg 274]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 [pg 275]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.”

“Not so, dear lady, it beats at the present moment with anger. It can also beat with love.”

“Never towards him who has maltreated me.”

“By the Gods! forbear. I am endangered by listening to such words.”

“What—what—what is Ursus saying?” asked Messalinus, who caught a word or two. “He is beside the Augusta—what did he say—and in a low tone also. No treason hatching at the table of our Divine Lord, I trust.”12

“Here come the jesters and the mimes,” said Ursus, “and may the god of Laughter provide such matter for mirth as will satisfy Catullus Messalinus.”

“Then it must be a tragedy,” said another guest, “for to our blind friend here, naught is jocose unless to some other it be painful.”

“We have all our gifts,” said Messalinus, smirking.

Then entered some acrobats who went through [pg 276]evolutions, casting knives and catching them, forming human pyramids, ladders, wheels, balancing poles on their chins whilst a boy went through contortions at the top.

But there was no novelty in the exhibition. The Emperor wearied of it, and ordered the performers to withdraw.

Next appeared mimes, who performed low buffoonery in gesture and dialogue, interspersed with snatches of song, that were so offensive to decency that Domitia, who had never seen and heard anything of the kind at her mother’s house, sprang to her feet with flaming cheeks, brow and bosom, and made a motion to leave. She knew it—this disgusting performance had been commanded by the prince, for the purpose of humiliating her. She would go. But Domitian, whose malignant glance was on her, saw her purpose and called out,—

“It is my will, Domitia, that you remain in your seat. The cream of the entertainment has yet to come.”

Ursus put his hand to her garment and gently drew her down on her seat.

“Endure it,” he whispered, “it will soon be over.”

“It is the worst outrage of all,” said she with heaving breast, and the blood so surged into her eyes and ears that she could see and hear no more.

Indeed, she was hardly conscious when the buffoons withdrew, her eyes rested on the marble floor, strewn with the remains of the feast.13 But suddenly she started from the dream, or the stupefaction into which [pg 277]she had fallen, by hearing the voice of Paris, the tragic actor.

She looked up sharply, and saw him, a tall, handsome man, of Greek profile, and with curly dark hair. He was clad in a long mantle, and wore the buskins. Behind him were minor performers, to take a part in dialogue, or to chant a chorus.

“Lord and Augustus, what is it your pleasure that we represent in your presence?” asked the actor.

“Repeat the speech of Œdipus Coloneus to Theseus towards the close of the drama. That, I mean, which begins, ‘O son of Ægeus, I will teach the things that are in store.’ ”

Paris bowed, and drawing himself up, closing his eyes to represent the blindness of the old king he personated, and with hands extended began:

“Do you mark, Domitia?” called the Emperor with bantering tone.

“I have looked under the table, sire, to see whether, like your kinsman Calvisius, you keep there a prompter who has read Eurypides.”14

Some of the guests hardly controlled their laughter. The deficiency in the education of Domitian was well known.

“Go on, fellow,” ordered he surlily. “Skip some lines—it is tedious, draw to the end.”