First and foremost, as had been brought home
to his mind from minute to minute throughout the long hours, its glory
belonged not to himself, not even to his father, Vespasian, but to his
brother, the conqueror of the Jews. Titus he had always hated, Titus,
who was as beloved of mankind for his virtues, such as virtues were in
that age, as he, Domitian, was execrated for his vices. Now Titus had
returned after a brilliant and successful campaign to be crowned as
Caesar, to be accepted as the sharer of his father's government, and to
receive the ovations of the populace, while his brother Domitian must
ride almost unnoted behind his chariot. The plaudits of the roaring mob,
the congratulations of the Senate, the homage of the knights and subject
princes, the offerings of foreign kings, all laid at the feet of Titus,
filled him with a jealousy that went nigh to madness. Soothsayers had
told him, it was true, that his hour would come, that he would live and
reign after Vespasian and Titus had gone down, both of them, to Hades.
But even if they spoke the truth this hour seemed a long way off.
Also there were other things. At the great sacrifice before the temple
of Jupiter, his place had been set too far back where the people could
not see him; at the feast which followed the master of the ceremonies
had neglected, or had forgotten, to pour a libation in his honour.
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