intimately half-believed he was a hero after all. Athletic, muscular
and systematically trained, his vigor, that was purely physical, passed
readily for spiritual quality within that golden hall, where the
resources of the world were all put under tribute to provide a royal
setting. He emerged. He smiled, as if the sun shone. He observed the
rolled petitions, greetings, testimonials of flattery from private
citizens and addresses of adulation from distant cities, being heaped
into a gilded basket as the silent throng filed by beneath him. He
nodded. Now and then he scowled, his irritation growing as the minutes
passed. At each gesture of impatience the subprefects quietly impelled
the crowd to quicker movement. But at the end of fifteen minutes
Commodus grew tired of dignity and his ferocious scowl clouded his face
like a thunderstorm.

"Am I to sit here while the whole world makes itself ridiculous by
staring at me?" he demanded, in a harsh voice. It was loud enough to
fill the throne-room, but none knew whether it was meant for an aside or
not and none dared answer him. The crowd continued flowing by, each
raising his right hand and bowing as he reached the square of carpet
that was placed exactly in front of Caesar's throne.

Commodus rose to his feet. All movement ceased then and there was utter
silence. For a moment he stood scowling at the crowd, one hand resting
on the golden lion's head that flanked the throne. Then he laughed.

"Too many petitions!" he sneered, pointing at the overflowing basket;
and in another moment he had vanished through the door behind the marble
screen. Met and escorted up the stairs by groups of cringing slaves, he
reached a columned corridor. Rich carpets lay on the mosaic floor;
sunlight, from under; the awnings of a balcony glorious with potted