Domitia

A long-drawn growl of thunder muttered through the passages of the palace.

“I saw no flash,” said the prince, “yet lightning falls somewhere, maybe to kindle the pyre on which that sorcerer will burn; I care not. Fire of heaven fall and strike where and whom thou wilt!”

He went again to the window and looked forth. The air was still and close. The sky was enveloped in vapor and not a star could be seen. A continuous quiver of electric light ran along the horizon. Then the heavens seemed to be rent asunder and a blaze of lightning shot forth, blinding to the eyes.

Domitian turned away, and laid the tablets on the marble sideboard as he pressed his hands to his eyeballs.

“By the Gods!” he exclaimed a moment later, “here comes the rain; it descends in cataracts; it falls with a roar.”

He paced the room, halted, stood in front of the clepsydra and looked at the dropping water. The water had been reddened, and it seemed like blood sweated out of the silver globe. At that moment the wheel revolved, and sent a crimson gush into the receiver. With a jerk Saturn raised his scythe and indicated the hour ten.

The Emperor turned away, and came in front of Domitia.

“None have ever loved me,” he said bitterly, “how then can it be expected that I shall love any? my father disliked me, my brother distrusted me – and you – my wife, have ever hated me. I need not ask the cause of that. It is Lamia, always Lamia. Because he has never married you think he still harbors love for you; and you – you hate me because of him. It is hard to be a prince, and to be alone. If I hear a play – I think I catch allusions to me; if it be a comedy – there is a jest aimed at me; if a tragedy, it expresses what men wish may befall me. If I read a historian, he declaims on the glories of a commonwealth before these men, these Cæsars became tyrants, and as for your philosophers – away with them, they are wind-bags, but the wind is poisonous, it is malarious to me. When I am at the circus, because I back green – you, the entire hoop of spectators cheer, bet on the blue – to show me that they hate me. At the Amphitheatre, if I favor the big shields, then every one else is for the small targets. A prince is ever the most solitary of men. If you had protested that you loved me, had fondled me, I would have held you in suspicion, mistrusted your every word and look and gesture. Perhaps it is because that you have never given me good word, gentle look, and gesture of respect that I feel you are true – cruelly true, and I have loved you as the only true person I know. Now answer me – you asked after my death?”

“Yes,” answered Domitia.

“I knew it.”

“And,” said she, in cold, hard tones, looking straight into his agitated, twitching countenance, “I bear to you a message.”

“From whom?”

“From Cornelia, the Great Mother.”

“Well, and what – ” he stopped, some one approached the door. “What would you have?”

The mime Latinus appeared.

“Well – speak.”

“Sire, the rain extinguished the pyre, before that the astrologer was much burnt; then the dogs fell on him, as he was unbound, and they tore him and he is dead.”

“Ye Gods!” gasped Domitian, putting up his hand. “His word has come true after all.”

Domitia signed to the actor to withdraw.

“You have not heard the message of Cornelia.”

He did not speak.

“She has summoned you, the Augustus, the Chief Pontiff, the unjust Judge, to answer before the All-righteous Supreme Justice, above – before the scythe points to Twelve.”

Domitian answered not a word, he threw his mantle about his face and left the room.

He had left his tablets on the table.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE HOUR OF TWELVE

For some moments Domitia remained without stirring. But then, roused by a glare of lightning, succeeded by a crash so loud as to shake the palace, she saw in the white blaze the tablets of the Emperor lying on the table.

At once, aware of the importance of what she had secured, she seized them, and went to the lamp to open them.

They consisted of thin citron-wood boards, framed and hinged on one side, the surfaces within covered with a film of wax, on which notes were inscribed with a stile or iron pen. There were stray leaves that served for correspondence, orders and so forth, but what Domitia now held was a diptych, that is to say, two leaves hinged, like a book-cover, which had included loose sheets and were bound together by strings.

She at once opened the diptych, and saw on the first page: —

“To be executed immediately: – In the Tullianum, by strangulation, Lucius Ælius Lamia Plautius Ælianus.To be torn by dogs: – The Chaldæan Elymas, otherwise called Ascletarion.”

On the second leaf:

“To be executed on the morrow: – By decapitation: Petronius Secundus, Præfect of the Prætorium. Norbanus, likewise Præfect of the Prætorium.By strangling, in the Tullianum: Parthenius and Sigerius, Chamberlains of the Palace.To be bled to death: Stephanus: steward to my niece Domitilla. Entellus: Secretary alibellis.”

The words applying to Lamia acted on her as a blow against her heart. She staggered to a stool, sank on it and struggled for breath.

But the urgency of the danger allowed no delay – she rallied her strength immediately, flew from the room and summoned Eboracus.

To him, breathless, she said: “Fly – summon me at once Stephanus the steward, Petronius and Norbanus, præfects, and the chamberlains Parthenius and Sigerius. Bid them come to me at once – not make a moment’s delay.”

She sank again on the stool and put her hands to her temples and pressed them.

The lightning continued to flare and the thunder to roll. There ensued a turmoil, and a sound of voices crying; then a rush of feet. Euphrosyne entered with startled mien – “My mistress! The bolt of heaven has fallen on the Palatine, and the chamber of the Augustus has been struck. The Temple of the Flavians is on fire, and is burning in despite of the rain.”

The chamberlain, Parthenius, entered.

“Augusta!” said he, “the lightning has struck that part of the palace occupied by Cæsar. He must have his apartment for the night on this side.”

“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.”