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