I don’t wish to be Caesar.  Glabrio, for instance, is a better man than I am for the task.  I will only consent to your desperate course, for the sake of Rome, if you can prove to me that Commodus designs a wholesale massacre.  And even so, if your name and Galen’s and mine are not on his proscription list—­if he only intends, that is, to punish Christians and weaken the faction of that Carthaginian Severus, I will observe my oath of loyalty.  I will counsel moderation but—­”

“You are less than half a man without your mistress!” Marcia exploded.  “Don’t stand trying to impress me with your dignity.  I don’t believe in it!  I will send for Cornificia.”

“No, no!” Pertinax showed instant resolution.  “Cornificia shall not be dragged in.  The responsibility is yours and mine.  Let us not lessen our dignity by involving an innocent woman.”

For a moment that made Marcia breathless.  She was staggered by his innocence, not his assertion of Cornificia’s—­bemused by the man’s ability to believe what he chose to believe, as if Cornificia had not been the very first who plotted to make him Caesar.  Cornificia more than any one had contrived to suggest to the praetorian guard that their interest might best be served some day by befriending Pertinax; she more than any one had disarmed Commodus’ suspicion by complaining to him about Pertinax’ lack of self-assertiveness, which had become Commodus’ chief reason for not mistrusting him.  By pretending to report to Commodus the private doings of Pertinax and a number of other important people, Cornificia had undermined Commodus’ faith in his secret informers who might else have been dangerous.

“Your Cornificia,” Marcia began then changed her mind.  Disillusionment would do no good.  She must play on the man’s illusion that he was the master of his own will.  “Very well,” she went on, “Yours be the decision!  No woman can decide such issues.  We are all in your hands—­ Cornificia and Galen—­all of us—­aye, and Rome, too—­and even Sextus and his friends.  But you will never have another such opportunity.  It is tonight or never, Pertinax!”

He winced.  He was about to speak, but something interrupted him.  The great door carved with cupids leading to the emperor’s bedchamber opened inch by inch and Telamonion came out, closing it softly behind him.

“Caesar sleeps,” said the child, “and the wind blew out the lamp.  He was very cross.  It is dark.  It is cold and lonely in there.”

In his hand he held a sheet of parchment, covered with writing and creased from his attempts to make a parchment helmet, “Show me,” he said, holding out the sheet to Marcia.

She took him on her knee and began reading what was written, putting him down when he tugged at the parchment to make her show him how to fold it.  She found him another sheet to play with and told him to take it to Pertinax who was a soldier and knew more about helmets.  Then she went on reading, clutching at the sheet so tightly that her nails blanched white under the dye.