“And who should advise, if not he who has ridden so hard and fast in my service?  Tell me, is there any hope of peace, of reconciliation with Pompeius?”

“None.”

“Any chance that the senators will recover their senses, and propose a reasonable compromise?”

“None.”

“Will not Cicero use his eloquence in the cause of peace and common justice?”

“I have seen him.  He dare not open his mouth.”

“Ah!” and again Caesar was silent, this time with a smile, perhaps of scorn, playing around his mouth.

“Are the people, the equites, given body and soul over to the war party?”

Drusus nodded sadly.  “So long as the consuls are in the ascendant, they need fear no revolution at home.  The people are not at heart your enemies, Imperator; but they will wait to be led by the winning side.”

“And you advise?”—­pressed Caesar, returning to the charge.

“War!” replied Drusus, with all the rash emphasis of youth.

“Young man,” said Caesar, gravely, half sadly, “what you have said is easy to utter.  Do you know what war will mean?”

Drusus was silent.

“Let us grant that our cause is most just.  Even then, if we fight, we destroy the Republic.  If I conquer, it must be over the wreck of the Commonwealth.  If Pompeius—­on the same terms.  I dare not harbour any illusions.  The state cannot endure the farce of another Sullian restoration and reformation.  A permanent government by one strong man will be the only one practicable to save the world from anarchy.  Have you realized that?”

“I only know, Imperator,” said Drusus, gloomily, “that no future state can be worse than ours to-day, when the magistrates of the Republic are the most grievous despots.”

Caesar shook his head.

“You magnify your own wrongs and mine.  If mere revenge prompts us, we are worse than Xerxes, or Sulla.  The gods alone can tell us what is right.”

“The gods!” cried Drusus, half sunken though he was in a weary lethargy, “do you believe there are any gods?”

Caesar threw back his head.  “Not always; but at moments I do not believe in them, I know!  And now I know that gods are guiding us!”

“Whither?” exclaimed the young man, starting from his weary drowsiness.

“I know not whither; neither do I care.  Enough to be conscious that they guide us!”

And then, as though there was no pressing problem involving the peace of the civilized world weighing upon him, the proconsul stood by in kind attention while Antiochus and an attendant bathed the wearied messenger’s feet before taking him away to rest.

After Drusus had been carried to his room, Caesar collected the manuscripts and tablets scattered about the apartment, methodically placed them in the proper cases and presses, suffered himself to be undressed, and slept late into the following morning, as sweetly and soundly as a little child.