In spite of Serapsis, Anubis and Isis, he had not the faintest
odor of myth about him; absolutely bourgeois, he lacked even that
atmosphere of burlesque that surrounded Claud; he was not even
vicious. But he was a soldier, a brave one; and if, with the
acquired economy of a subaltern who has been obliged to live on
his pay, he kept his purse-strings tight, they were loose enough
if a friend were in need, and he paid no one the compliment of a
lie. He was projected sheer out of the republic. The better part
of his life had been passed under arms; the delicate sensuality of
Rome was foreign to him. It was there that Domitian had lived.
It were interesting to have watched that young man killing flies
by the hour, while he meditated on the atrocities he was to
commit--atrocities so numberless and needless that in the red
halls of the Caesars he has left a portrait which is unique.
Slender, graceful, handsome, as were all the young emperors of old
Rome, his blue, troubled eyes took pleasure, if at all, only in
the sight of blood.
In accordance with the fashion which Caligula and Nero had set,
Domitian's earliest manners were those of an urbane and gentle
prince. Later, when he made it his turn to rule, informers begged
their bread in exile. Where they are not punished, he announced,
they are encouraged. The sacrifices were so distressing to him
that he forbade the immolation of oxen.
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