No entertainers were provided.  Normally the space between the table and the front of the pavilion would have been occupied by acrobats, dancers and jugglers; but Pertinax dismissed even the impudent women who came to lean elbows on the marble railing and sing snatches of suggestive song.  He sent slaves to stand outside and keep the crowd away, his lictor and his personal official bodyguard being kept out of sight in a small stone house near the pavilion kitchen at the rear among the trees, in order not to arouse unwelcome comment.  It was known he was in Daphne; there was even a subdued expectation in Antioch that his unannounced visit portended the extortion of extra tribute.  The Emperor Commodus was known to be in his usual straits for money.  Given a sufficient flow of wine, the sight of bodyguard and lictor might have been enough to start a riot, the Antiochenes being prone to outbreak when their passions were aroused by drink and women.

There was a long silence after Pertinax had dismissed the steward.  Galen’s old personal attendant took charge of the amphora of snow-cooled Falernian; he poured for each in turn and then retired into a corner to be out of earshot, or at any rate to emphasize that what he might hear would not concern him.  Pertinax strolled to the front of the pavilion and looked out to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, staring for a long time at the revelry that was warming up into an orgy.  They were dancing in rings under the moon, their shadowy figures rendered weird by smoky torchlight.  Cornificia at last broke on his reverie: 

“You wish to join them, Pertinax?  That would dignify even our Roman Hercules—­to say nothing of you!”

He shrugged his shoulders, but his eyes were glittering.

“If Marcia could govern Commodus as you rule me, he would be safer on the throne!” he answered, coming to sit upright on the couch beside her.  It was evident that he intended that speech to release all tongues; he looked from face to face expectantly, but no one spoke until Cornificia urged him to protect himself against the night breeze.  He threw a purple-bordered cloak over his shoulders.  It became him; he looked so official in it, and majestic, that even Sextus—­rebel that he was against all modern trumpery—­forebore to break the silence.  It was Galen who spoke next: 

“Pertinax, if you might choose an emperor, whom would you nominate?  Remember:  He must be a soldier, used to the stench of marching legions.  None could govern Rome whose nose goes up in the air at the smell of sweat and garlic.”

There was a murmur of approval.  Cornificia stroked the long, strong fingers of the man she idolized.  Sextus gave rein to his impulse then, brushing aside Norbanus’ hand that warned him to bide his time: 

“Many more than I,” he said, “are ready to throw in our lot with you, Pertinax—­aye, unto death!  You would restore Rome’s honor.  I believe my father could persuade a hundred noblemen to take your part, if you would lead.  I can answer for five or six men of wealth and influence, not reckoning a friend or two who—­”