sen from the college of the Pontiffs of Cybele,
habited in very gorgeous robes. One was Marcus Octavius Vindex, son of the
ex-consul, a very handsome young man; the other, to my amazement,
Talponius Pulto.

At sight of my life-long enemy who had always rebuffed my overtures
towards the establishment of courteous relations between us, who had
insulted me a thousand times, who had sponsored the informer whose
insinuations had caused my downfall, revengeful rage and self-
congratulation at my opportunity filled me.

For, between the two pompous old senators and this dignified, showy and
impressive trio, capered a score of eunuch priests clashing cymbals and
among them Commodus also clashing cymbals and amazingly garbed. I have
never been able to conjecture how his headgear was managed. He had a band
round his forehead and from that band rose a sphere of some light
material, apparently a framework of whalebone covered with silk, a sphere
fully a yard in diameter, all gleaming with the sheen of silk, and white
with an unsurpassable whiteness. His robe, or tunic or whatever it was,
was of the same or a similar glossy white silk. Round his neck was a
golden collar, and gold anklets of a similar pattern clanked on his
ankles. From the links or bosses of the collar to the links or bosses of
the anklets streamed silken ribbons of the same intense light yellow we
had seen in the robes of the panther-keepers. Two of the eunuch priests
fanned him with peacock feather fans, so that the ribbons fluttered and
shimmered in the torchlight. He wore soft shoes or slippers of the same
vivid yellow. Clashing his cymbals he shrieked and capered with the eunuch
priests.

I was more than shocked to see the Prince of the Republic so degrade
himself, to see him exhibit the acme of the craze for devising
unimaginably fantastic costumes for this Festival.

Besides being shocked, I was terrified, even numb with terror. I knew that
Maternus would never believe me if I indicated this gaping zany and
asserted that it was our Emperor: yet Maternus had such an uncanny power
of interpreting the expression of face of any interlocutor that I dreaded
to tell him anything save the exact truth. I was in a dilemma, equally
afraid to tell the truth, for fear the improbability of it would infuriate
Maternus and convince him of my treachery; or to take the obvious course,
for fear some subtle shade of my tone or look might similarly impel him to
stab me.

As