The Emperor complied with her wishes, and read out in an expressionless voice a narrative of the death of the Carthaginian hero, which I confess was not distinguished either by originality of thought or elegance of diction. It was, to tell the truth, tedious and interlarded with many moral reflections of a somewhat trite order on the vanity of human achievement. But during all the time he read, the Empress sat opposite him with an expression of rapt interest, and at the more pathetic passages tears came into her eyes. By the peroration on Hannibal’s character, which said that he was a great man but a victim of ambition, and that in contemplating so great an elevation and so miserable an end man could not fail to be impressed, she was especially moved. When it was finished she made him repeat some verses which he had written about the death of Dido. The Emperor showed reluctance to do this, but she finally persuaded him, saying that people might say what they liked, but that she greatly preferred his verse to that of Vergil. It was more human and more manly. In Vergil, she said, there was always a note of effeminacy. I could not agree with her there, but her admiration for her husband’s work was deeply touching in its sincerity. “If only he had more time to himself,” she said wistfully, “he would write a magnificent epic--but he is a slave to his duty.” The Emperor then mentioned that he was starting for Ostia in a few days. The Empress put on a pained expression, and said it was too cruel of him not to take her with him. He explained that he would willingly have done so, but as his time there would be entirely devoted to formal business he was sure she would be more happy at Rome. She then asked him if he had any objection to her organizing a little ceremony for the Festival of Bacchus during his absence. Silius had promised to help her. They had even thought of performing a little play, quite privately, of course, in the gardens, just for a few friends. The Emperor smiled and said he had no objection, only he begged her to see that etiquette was observed and that the guests should not be allowed to take any liberties. “The Empress is so good-natured,” he said, “and people take advantage of her good nature and her high spirits, and the Romans, especially the matrons, are so spiteful.” He had, of course, no objection to a little fun, and he wanted her above all things to enjoy herself. At that moment Narcissus, the freedman, entered with some papers for the Emperor to sign. The Emperor glanced through them, signed most of them, but paused at one. “I thought,” he said, and then hesitated and coughed, “that we had settled to pardon them.” “There was an idea of it at first,” said Narcissus, “but you afterwards, if you remember, agreed that it was necessary to make an example in this case.” “Yes, yes,” answered the Emperor. “Are you talking of Verus and Antonius?” the Empress broke in. “You promised me that they would be pardoned.”