When the prisoners disappeared in the Tullianum and a herald
shouted, "They have lived!" Domitian returned to the palace and
hunted morosely for flies. The excesses of the festival in which
Rome was swooning then had no delights for him. Presently the moon
would rise, and then on the deserted terrace perhaps he would
bathe a little in her light, and dream again of Pallas and of the
possibilities of an emperor's sway, but meanwhile those blue
troubled eyes that Psyche was amorous of were filled with envy and
with hate. It was not that he begrudged Titus the triumph. The man
who had disposed of a million Jews deserved not one triumph, but
ten. It was the purple that haunted him.
Domitian was then in the early twenties. The Temple of Peace was
ascending; the Temple of Janus was closed; the empire was at rest.
Side by side with Vespasian, Titus ruled. From the Euphrates came
the rumor of some vague revolt. Domitian thought he would like to
quell it. He was requested to keep quiet. It occurred to him that
his father ought to be ashamed of himself to reign so long. He was
requested to vacate his apartment. There were dumb plots in dark
cellars, of which only the echo of a whisper has descended to us,
but which at the time were quite loud enough to reach Vespasian's
ears. Titus interceded. Domitian was requested to behave.
For a while he prowled in the moonlight. He had been too
precipitate, he decided, and to allay suspicion presently he went
about in society, mingling his hours with those of married women.
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