“Why talk foolishness!” said Pertinax.  “The legions will elect Commodus’ successor.  They will sell Rome to the highest bidder, probably; and though they like me as a soldier they dislike my discipline.  I am the governor of Rome and still alive in spite of it because even Commodus’ informers know it would be silly to accuse me of intrigue.  Not even Commodus would listen to such talk.  I lead the gay life, for my own life’s sake.  All know me as a roisterer.  I am said to have no ambition other than to live life sensuously.”

Galen laughed.

“That may deceive Commodus,” he said.  “The thoughtful Romans know you as a frugal governor, who stamped out plague and—­”

“You did that,” said Pertinax.

“Who enabled me?”

“It was a simple thing to have the tenements burned.  Besides, it profited the city—­new streets; and there was twice the amount of tax on the new tenements they raised.  I, personally, made a handsome profit on the purchase of a few burned houses.”

“And as the governor who broke the famine,” Galen continued.

“That was simple enough, but you may as well thank Cornificia.  She found out through the women who the men were who were holding corn for speculation.  All I did was to hand their names to Commodus; he confiscated all the corn and sold it—­at a handsome profit to himself, since it had cost him nothing!”

“While we sit here and cackle like Asian birds, Commodus renames Rome the City of Commodus and still lives!” Sextus grumbled.

“Nor can he be easily got rid of,” remarked Daedalus the tribune.  “He goes to and fro from the palace through underground tunnels.  Men sleep in his room who are all involved with him in cruelties and infamy, so they guard him carefully.  Besides, whoever tried to murder him would probably kill Paulus by mistake!  The praetorian guard is contented, being well paid and permitted all sorts of privileges.  Who can get past the praetorian guard?”

“Any one!” said Pertinax.  “The point is not, who shall kill Commodus?  But who shall be raised in his place?  There are thirty thousand ways to kill a man.  Ask Galen!”

Old Galen laughed at that.

“As many ways as there are stars in heaven; but the stars have their say in the matter!  None can kill a man until his destiny says yes to it.  Not even a doctor,” he added, chuckling.  “Otherwise the doctors would have killed me long ago with jealousy!  A man dies when his inner man grows sick and weary of him.  Then a pin-prick does it, or a sudden terror.  Until that time comes you may break his skull, and do not more than spoil his temper!  As a philosopher I have learned two things:  respect many, but trust few.  But as a doctor I have learned only one thing for certain:  that no man actually dies until his soul is tired of him.”

“Whose soul should grow sick sooner than that of Commodus?” asked Sextus.